


En Garde!

by VictoriaSkyeMarsters



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, The Three Musketeers (2011), Young Blades (2001)
Genre: D'Artagnan gets slapped around a lot, Enemies to Lovers, Hannibal Extended Universe, M/M, PLEASE READ MY NOTE REGARDING WARNINGS, Pain Kink, Smut, Spanking, Suicidal Thoughts, but he likes it, dark!d'Artagnan, hannigram AU, kind of?, slave kink, someone likes taking directions, they're always in love, they're in love, wink wink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 13:52:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 28,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8847574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VictoriaSkyeMarsters/pseuds/VictoriaSkyeMarsters
Summary: Immediately following the events of Young Blades, D'Artagnan's life changes when he splashes a bit of mud on a surly looking man in a silly hat.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, guys! After finishing my Dragon Age AU, I needed something silly and simple to write, and I've always loved the idea of Hugh's D'Artagnan with Mads' Rochefort. So I've thrown them together here, in a little captive/captor fic for you! 
> 
> PLEASE NOTE, REGARDING WARNINGS: While writing this, I never considered anything that happened sexually between them to be nonconsensual, but I did use that warning, just in case. So you know, from my perspective, D'Artagnan was always dtf. That said, the events that take place in this fic could be considered noncon, and their relationship could be taken as a form of Stockholm Syndrome. So if those are triggers for you, DON'T READ. 
> 
> (Please also note: This is so far off from canon, so please forgive my blatant disregard for the facts of this universe.)
> 
> xoxo

He was bored. 

D’Artagnan leaned breathlessly against the tree, the wind kicking up a whisper of leaves and spraying his face with errant raindrops. He didn’t think he would feel so disheartened so quickly. Only a week had passed since he’d parted ways with Porthos, Aramis, and Athos, and since Anne laughed in his face after he’d confessed his ardor. D’Artagnan watched her ride off after her rejection, until her figure blurred into the surrounding hillside, and he had kept on riding, alone. 

Maybe it was because he had no set destination. That could be the reason behind his unhappy restlessness. He had felt such a stirring in his heart at the wake of his adventure. He and his new friends had been The Four Musketeers: formidable foes, gallant swordsmen! The excellent artistry of the fighting, the romance, and the sense of camaraderie…D’Artagnan’s mood fell to even lower depths as he contemplated the recent events of his young life, and, with a pang of apprehension, a thought occurred to him, like a blade to the chest. Had he peaked? Had the adventure he had only a week ago concluded been his one and only, singular apex? He rubbed a hand across his worried stomach, to soothe the sudden ache. 

D’Artagnan’s week of traveling alone had begun in earnest, a certainty gripping him that he would stumble, miraculously, into another adventure. But an optimistic first day had turned into a dismal, uninteresting week, and now he stood beneath the cover of a tree, waiting out a rainstorm, and wondering what he should do next. The chill accompanying the rain sent his hands to burrow into his pockets and his fingertips touched nothing but the soft inner fabric. Even his emptiness of pocket had been a fun challenge at first, but not so much anymore, with his tummy rumbling loudly enough to contest the roll of thunder. 

Hungry and dejected, that was the Magnificent D’Artagnan’s lot. Partially wishing for lightning to strike him and end his misery, the lone wanderer began to suss out his next move. Reasonably, he only had one clear option, a way to fill his stomach and enjoy a full night’s sleep in a real bed, but he did not relish the thought of the Last Resort, and so he stood beneath the tree, petting Buttercup until she took the initiative by nudging his shoulder irritably.

“I know, I know,” D’Artagnan sighed, pressing his forehead against the mare’s snout. “I just hate to do it.”

Buttercup snorted and stomped her foot. D’Artagnan’s shoulders slumped, and then, in a queer twist of fate, the rain stopped and a beam of sunlight slotted through the dark clouds, highlighting a small town on the horizon. There was no mistaking the sign, and D’Artagnan relinquished his pride enough to mount his horse. 

“Okay, girl,” he said, patting her spotted neck. “Let’s head home.”

 

\--

 

D’Artagnan wasn’t superstitious; it’s just that, when a sign clearly presents itself to one, one would be remiss to blatantly ignore said sign. So when a solitary beam of sun, when it could shine anywhere in the world, shone of its own volition on his hometown, it was sign enough for the definitely not superstitious D’Artagnan to trot Buttercup home. As the dots of buildings rapidly began to grow larger, D’Artagnan frowned. He had thought his journey had taken him farther away than a day’s travel. Perhaps, he rationalized to Buttercup, he had actually traveled so far that he had begun to loop back around again. That must be it, and with that thought, he was able to ride, straight-backed and confident into his childhood hamlet, which he had only recently left for his grand adventure. 

Surely, everyone would see the differences in him at once. He would look older, yes? Wiser, certainly. And if he wasn’t mistaken, his first growth of stubble had finally begun to shadow his face. D’Artagnan lifted a hand to smooth across his chin. Hmm…no beard. Not yet, anyway. But then, he was still moderately young. Only in years, mind; in wisdom and swordsmanship, he likened himself to the ancients of the world. He was one of the best for his age, nay, for any age, and it was with this pompous demeanor that D’Artagnan pranced his horse into town. 

If he hadn’t been so far up his own arse, maybe he would have noticed the changes right away. As it was, D’Artagnan was fully preoccupied with half a mind of dread at explaining to his mother where he’d been, and half a mind of arrogance, trying to see his improved self through the eyes of the townsfolk. Because of this, he did not see what was there to be seen, did not sense the general fretfulness hanging tense in the air. Not, of course, until he was forced to acknowledge it.

D’Artagnan and Buttercup weren’t galloping, per se, but they were apparently keeping such a pace, wherein, at passing an unfamiliar man in fine dress, Buttercup’s hooves kicked up a flinging of mud. It seemed the rainstorm’s reach had been far enough to dampen the town’s dirt road, and, consequently, splatter the man’s long, fine cape. D’Artagnan, not in the business of ruining clothing, but then again, not exactly in the business of admitting when he’d done something wrong, attempted to ride along with nothing but a cursory, apologetic shrug to the man.

That didn’t work out so well. (Or, maybe, in the end, it did, but that is an unaffordable digression from the current story.)

Cape splashed with mud, D’Artagnan’s smile was received, yet ill effective, for in a hairsbreadth, the man reached out his hand, grabbed D’Artagnan by the back of his puffy white shirt before he could trot out of reach, and yanked. He landed in the mud at the stranger’s feet, Buttercup whinnying with upset before taking off down the road without her master.

Outraged and out of breath, D’Artagnan sat on his buttocks on the side of the road, hands planted in the mud, and stared up, mouth agape, at his assailant. From the new angle, D’Artagnan could make out the features of the caped man beyond his cape. Firstly, the eye patch strung across his face; that was distracting, but not the only absurdity worth scrutinizing. The man’s hat was, though of the fashion of the day, a little too folded up on one side, with a slightly larger brandishing of feathers than was usual. The facial hair was –and this was not at all D’Artagnan’s jealousy speaking – cartoonish in its devilishness, a primly trimmed mustache and goatee, like a thick, upside down triangle beneath his mouth. And the mouth was outrageous, as well, with its plump pout, bowed like a woman’s. D’Artagnan scoffed, blowing a bouncy curl from his eyes to better take in the preposterousness of the man who had pulled him unseemly from his horse’s back. He saw cheekbones that were too high and too sharp. One good eye, though pleasant of shade and shape, dwelled beneath the extremeness of a too-pale, too-prominent brow. And the man was older by D’Artagnan by decades, he was positive, with wrinkles around his good eye and his black, gold-embossed patch. And though his hair was long, to his shoulders, like D’Artagnan’s, it was straight and pulled back in a silly ponytail beneath his comical hat. And his clothes were gawk-worthy, too. All high collar lace and expensive fabric and purplish-brownish leather, with ridiculous boots of the same make to match! And this was the man who had dared knock D’Artagnan from Buttercup? Utter ridiculousness! D’Artagnan meant to stand up at once and tell the strange man exactly what he thought about his attitude and actions, but a purplish-brownish boot landed square on D’Artagnan’s chest and crushed him onto his back, squishing him into the mud.

“Oof!” D’Artagnan exclaimed as the air was pushed from his lungs. He scowled at the man above him, who was leaning with, if not his full weight, then definitely more than was healthy and certainly more than was comfortable. The man laughed –laughed! - as he watched D’Artagnan work his lips fruitlessly, wanting to curse the man but unable to even squeak from the pressure on his chest. 

“My apologies,” the man said, his head tilting curiously beneath the feathered shade of his hat. His long cape fluttered over his shoulder, and he pushed it back with a flick of his leather-gloved hand, standing tall and setting his hands to his narrow hips. “It seemed as though your beast was unwilling to stop, in order to make regrets for the state of my property.” He fingered a smidgeon of the ruined fabric and his face, an oddity entire, grimaced in a manner so unfriendly, D’Artagnan tried to scoot himself away. He only managed to burrow his body deeper into the mud, and the man, with a grunt of annoyance, removed his boot. 

D’Artagnan gasped, his hand clutched to his chest as he sucked in large buckets of breath. Fighting his dizziness, he scrambled to his feet and wasted no time reaching for his sword, but the man’s was already out and steadied at his throat by the time D’Artagnan’s fingers grazed his own weapon.

“Now, what do you say for your messy beast and even messier riding, boy?” the man hissed. The tip of his blade was the barest of touches against the hollow of D’Artagnan’s throat, and when he gulped, he could feel the increase of pressure from his bobbing Adam’s apple, and a resulting pinprick of blood blossoming on his snowy white throat. 

D’Artagnan resented the title of ‘boy’ and resented even more the way the man’s single eye pierced him sharper than his blade’s point. “I am an excellent rider,” D’Artagnan replied, though he knew, for his own health, that he shouldn’t. But as was his custom, he found himself valuing his prideful vanity over his health, and so he also added, “And Buttercup is no beast. She is more fearsome than you, you swine.” He wasn’t surprised when the man’s lip twitched and the blade dug further into the shallow of his skin. D’Artagnan could feel the trickle of blood, but scarier than his minor wounding was the man’s eye, sparking intensely. 

“Why should I not kill you for your insolence this very moment?”

Even though D’Artagnan knew it wasn’t the answer the man would want to hear, he was unable to stop himself when he replied, “Because I am an expert swordsman, and you would be dead before you could land your blow.” It wasn’t necessarily threatening, especially when D’Artagnan was bleeding and unable to unsheathe his own sword, but he stood with proud, straight shoulders regardless, and stared defiantly back at the man, whose eye’s expression was passing from disdain to…something else, something D’Artagnan was oblivious to, since he was too preoccupied with his own skin, and not of the feelings of the man he had insulted.

“You?” the man said with a huff of disbelief and a minute, mocking grin. “You can’t even sit astride your beast without falling off.” D’Artagnan opened his mouth to argue but the man held a finger up to his lips in a signal of silence. Then, surprisingly, he withdrew his sword. “The only reason you will walk away from me alive is because I have no wish to stain my clothes further.” His nose crinkled in disgust. “I have mud on my cape; do you think I wish filthy boy’s blood on my shoes?” 

D’Artagnan was angry, and his fingers itched to unleash his sword upon the unnamed man, but something held him back. Fighting a stranger in the middle of town hadn’t been the adventure he’d been pining for, and he would be no good son if he was killed before he’d at least gotten to say hello to his parents. It wasn’t at all that he was intimidated by the man who, now that they were both standing, verifiably loomed over D’Artagnan’s own stature. D’Artagnan wasn’t small, but he was at least a foot shorter than the eye-patched stranger, slim and slight, and though he was well-muscled, his musculature was sleek. His power, D’Artagnan maintained, was hidden, for the added benefit of surprising his opponents when he sprung his attacks. But D’Artagnan was sore from having ridden Buttercup all day, and his attire of a large, white shirt and loose-legged trousers were damp with weather. And though the man’s confidence and face brought his blood to a boil, D’Artagnan, being heavy with wisdom, decided that a fight was, after all, not what would be best. 

As if waiting for a sign of D’Artagnan’s weakness, the moment he lowered his eyes, the man stepped forward and slapped his hand across D’Artagnan’s face. The smack resonated. D’Artagnan lifted his hand to his cheek, which was burning with a wicked outline of fingers. 

“For ruining my cape,” the man said, and with a swish of said cape, he stalked away, leaving D’Artagnan standing in the road, stunned and thoroughly slapped.

 

\--

 

Forget the wretched man’s precious cape; it was D’Artagnan’s clothes that were ruined. His mother would say as much when he slogged on foot the rest of the walk home, covered in mud on the back of him from head to heel, never mind the slight swell of his cheek for having been hit so hard. He was hot with anger when he finally reached his home, a bit of a well-to do manor house, made up of solid gray stone and surrounded by a much doted upon garden. He scented the sweet flowers with a sigh as he watched his mother and father running frantically towards him. 

“D’Artagnan!” his mother screeched, reaching his side and grabbing his face in her hands. “Where have you been?!”

Beside her, his father was shaking his head disapprovingly. “You had your mother nearly dead with worry, son.”

D’Artagnan shrugged them both off with a flutter of his hands. “Please, I’m fine,” he assured hastily. “I merely went on an adventure.”

“You snuck out of your room in the middle of the night and didn’t even leave a note!” his mother berated, the grim line of her mouth losing its threat when paired with the ever-misting tears in her eyes. “We didn’t know what to think. And you were gone for three weeks, D’Artagnan!”

“I’m a man now, Mother,” D’Artagnan said, frustrated that he even needed to explain such a simple thing. “Only boys leave notes for their parents.”

His father squared up to him. He wasn’t tall, no taller than D’Artagnan anyway, but he was broad and known, on occasion, to become incensed by his son’s acts of foolhardy independence. D’Artagnan was helpless against The Look, and he hunched his shoulders marginally to appear smaller in his father’s eyes. The last thing he wanted was to come home with one red cheek from a stranger, only to receive another from his father. 

“I’d teach you a proper lesson for being such a scoundrel, but it looks to me like someone’s already been doling out lessons, eh? What happened to your neck, boy?”

D’Artagnan pressed a finger to his throat which was, indeed, sticky with still-wet blood. “This terrible brute accosted me on the road,” he told his parents. “Buttercup ran off without me. Is she here?”

“Aye, she’s in the stables. It’s what alerted us to your coming,” his mother supplied, clearly proud of her deduction. She dabbed her handkerchief against his throat, frowning at the wound, minor as it was. “What did this terrible brute look like, D’Art?”

He eased slightly beneath his mother’s kind attention, even though he was far too old and capable to need it. “He was obscene, mother,” D’Artagnan began, thinking back to the strangeness of the man. “Buttercup and I only walked politely past him when he pulled me from her back and threw me to the mud.”

“Yes, dear,” his mother said, and he finally caught wind of the edge in her voice; her trembling hand as she held the kerchief to his skin became all the more transparent for it, as she asked, “What did the man look like?”

“He looked like the, pardon me, like the arse that he was.” D’Artagnan flipped a flop of curls from his eyes and struck a haughty stance that caused him to look unconcerned and put-upon at the same time. 

“Specifics, son,” his father pleaded with a surly contortion of eyebrows that grew a pit of worry in D’Artagnan’s stomach. 

He considered the aesthetics and supplied his best descriptors. “Funny hat, funny cape, funny beard.” Remembering made him roll his eyes. “Insulted Buttercup and threatened me bodily, yet he was too cowardly to take me on. I don’t see how he could have been much of a challenge for my skill set, for goodness sake; he only had the one eye!”

D’Artagnan crossed his arms indignantly, expecting his parents to coo over his commendable strengths and wisdom to refuse such a lowly fight with a clearly insane stranger, but when he truly put his attention to the both of them, their faces gave him pause. White-faced and lip-biting, his mother and father looked as though they’d seen a ghost. 

“Oh, what’s the trouble? Didn’t I say I was a grown man who could look after himself on his own adventures?”

“Idiot boy!” his father bellowed, lifting his hand as if to strike. 

D’Artagnan flinched away instinctively and lifted his arms across his face in expectation of the blow, but it never came. Through his fingers he spied his mother holding her husband’s shoulder with clenched, chalky knuckles. 

“He had no way of knowing,” his mother whispered. 

“What are you on about?” D’Artagnan asked. 

“During your absence,” she said softly, “another came to town.” Her shiver was visible. “Rochefort is his name, and he is rumored to be the greatest swordsman in all of Europe. He is strong and cruel, and his men are as many as they are loyal.” She shook her head. “It has been a difficulty, having him here.”

“And now you’ve blown back into town just in time to piss him off!” D’Artagnan’s father yelled, and again, D’Artagnan reared back and prepared to be hit. His father only shook his fist in frustration, and began to pace the garden stones. “It’s a damned miracle you’re alive,” he said. “Rochefort’s been leaving a litter of bodies since he showed up.”

“Why has no one done anything about this menace?” D’Artagnan demanded in dismay. 

“He’s the best damn swordsman in Europe, or didn’t you hear me say that?” his father spat. “You think this town of farmers and weavers is gonna be able to do a damnable thing to stop him? And if that’s not enough to make you tremble in your boots, he’s said to be ex-musketeer, as well.”

D’Artagnan’s eyes widened. “An ex-musketeer? Are you sure?” When one became a musketeer, or so D’Artagnan believed, one remained a musketeer for life, dutiful and brave until one’s noble end. Though strictly unofficial, D’Artagnan considered himself a musketeer, and really, it only made since that the swine he’d encountered on the road had been an enemy of his cause. “The fiend!” he yelled, hand flying to his sword hilt for no good reason other than to wave his sword around in loathe offense.

“Stop swinging that thing around, darling, before you hurt yourself,” his mother cried.

With an affronted sigh, D’Artagnan desisted, sheathing the blade and opting to join his father in a pace of rage. “I will stop this Rochefort,” he declared.

“Stop him?” barked his father. “How do you suppose you’ll do that? Stun him into compliancy with your beauty?”

Heat rushed to D’Artagnan’s cheeks at his father’s words, and his hand scratched self-consciously at the smooth skin of his chin, where no beard even thought of growing. “One must do something when a madman commandeers their town,” he told his father. “As a musketeer, it is more than a capability of mine to see the task completed.”

“A musketeer?! What wild world have you been dreaming in for these weeks?”

“It’s true!” D’Artagnan returned angstily. “It just so happens, I’m rather good friends with three musketeers,” he boasted with a held-high chin as he presented an upraised trio of fingers. “It was with the musketeers I’ve been adventuring these past weeks. Doing good work. I tell you, father, that I am more than able and willing, and indeed feel a strong inclination, to rid our town of this Rochefort character, before he can leave more innocent bodies lying in the road.”

“You idiot boy,” said his father with a red, spiteful face, “you can’t defeat Rochefort anymore than I can. He’d slice you head to toe, like he did the Fralinger boy. With no trouble and no conscience against doing it. He’s a monster.”

“He may be a monster,” D’Artagnan said with a fierce temper of dedication, “but I am a musketeer.” He clapped his father on the back and kissed his mother’s cheek. “I will prove to you my title, of musketeer and of man. Buttercup!”

He could hear the snorting from his horse back in the stables, but she did not come, not even when he whistled. 

“Your horse doesn’t even think you’re man enough for the job,” his father muttered.

D’Artagnan kept his head held high as he turned for the path he’d walked in on. “I don’t need a horse to cut Rochefort to the ground where he belongs.”

And with that, D’Artagnan stomped from his family home, covered in mud and determined to set things right.

 

\--

 

D’Artagnan’s angry grumbles carried him all the way back into the town square, where he’d had the supreme misfortune of first encountering the unsavory Rochefort. He looked around for the menace, only succeeding in finding the ex-musketeer when he poked his head around the corner of a tavern. There! Rochefort was sitting with a small group of friends – or so D’Artagnan supposed them to be – with his silly boots propped up on a long wooden table and a mug of ale in his hand. Rochefort’s mouth was moving with inaudible speech, and the men surrounding him burst into ruckus laughter. D’Artagnan narrowed his eyes at the stupid feather sticking out of the stupid hat, and then he retreated, leaning his back against the wall of the tavern. What to do, what to do? 

Without a doubt, he could challenge the man to a duel. D’Artagnan would be the winner and Rochefort would retreat from town with his goons and a well-placed tail between his purple-leathered legs. That was the obvious solution, but was it interesting enough to be worthy of a musketeer such as D’Artagnan? It lacked a certain oomph, and D’Artagnan treasured oomph, as well as he knew his musketeer friends would be disappointed in hearing D’Artagnan had acted without deference to it. 

He was wondering what he could do, what pizzazz of assault he could assert to afford himself oomph and triumph, when a drift of foul aroma passed beneath his nostrils. Turning, he spotted the stable hand, in the tavern’s stable next door, trying to tend for a slew of large horses. Struck with a jolt of inspiration, D’Artagnan made way for the young stable hand, a boy of spots and dirt-smudged cheeks, much younger than D’Artagnan, in years and skill, to be sure. With a hand on his hip and an authoritative voice, D’Artagnan addressed the stable worker.

“You there, is that Rochefort’s horse?”

The young boy’s shade grew ashen, as though terribly averse to company, and when he responded, his voice was made small and pathetic by tremors. His eyes darted anxiously between D’Artagnan and the chocolate brown steed whose reins he held. “Err, yessir. This is Master Rochefort’s animal, sir.”

D’Artagnan inwardly shook his head at the sad creature before him whose hands shaking at being addressed by one as experienced as he. “That’s what I thought,” D’Artagnan said, sizing up the handsome horse that was almost the same shade of leather his rider was keen on wearing. A smirk inched over his lips as he set his plan into motion. Rochefort had the audacity to call Buttercup a beast? Well, D’Artagnan would see how he liked it when his own horse went missing. “I am to bring the Master’s horse around front for him.”

To his credit, the stable hand didn’t look completely convinced and D’Artagnan felt the smallest twinge of guilt when he took the horse’s reins from his hands. The lad would most likely be beaten for letting Rochefort’s horse out of the stables, but D’Artagnan reasoned it may be a learning lesson. If someone could walk up to him and take what wasn’t theirs with such ease, the boy needed to toughen up. “I haven’t all day,” D’Artagnan said, and then, after letting the horse sniff his hand for acquaintance, he stepped into the stirrup and sat astride the saddle. 

Higher up than Buttercup ever placed him, D’Artagnan looked down at the stable hand with a smile, and then mischief was fueling the speed of his heart as he dashed from the stall with Rochefort’s beast between his thighs. He wished he could stay and see the look on the man’s face when he realized his horse was gone, but he’d have to wait. He leaned forward, fingers winding in the steed’s mane, mud splashing up from the road as they galloped out of town.

 

\--

 

D’Artagnan was feeling pretty satisfied as he tied the stolen horse beside Buttercup in the family stable. Cheeks pink from the ride and veins rushing with adrenaline, all D’Artagnan needed to do was head back into town to gloat of his new acquisition and challenge Rochefort to the duel. Or just threaten not to return the horse until the despicable man succumbed to D’Artagnan and agreed to leave town for good, taking his petty, goonish friends with him. 

He daydreamed the telling of his humorous tale to the musketeers, and laughed along with the faces of his imagination. They would be pleased, indeed, patting D’Artagnan’s back approvingly, glowing with pride for their youngest, yet increasingly accomplished brother in arms. Only the drying mud at his back caused him distress, so light were his spirits at the moment. He petted Buttercup on her velvety nose before heading out of the stable, treading the stone garden path. A change of clothes would be most suitable; maybe a smallish bit of food, and then D’Artagnan would head back to town to finish his business. And that would be it for Rochefort, the villain. 

As he set his boot upon a stone step between the roses and basil, a loud eruption of sound pulled his attention to the gate, where a herd of armored men were parading atop familiar looking horses. D’Artagnan whipped full around to face the manor’s uncomely visitors, swallowing a surprised yelp when his eyes focused on the man leading the gang of brigands. 

The feather fluttered in the wind as Rochefort and his men jumped from their horses. D’Artagnan took a single, tentative step back before remembering that musketeers never backed away from an enemy, they stood stalwart and led the fight with the first attack. But by the time he had wrapped his hand around his sword to free it of its scabbard, Rochefort was upon him, backing him up against the wall of the manor. D’Artagnan gasped as Rochefort grabbed, spinning him roughly in his arms and holding him taut with a fist of curls. With the press of a dagger’s edge at his back, D’Artagnan allowed Rochefort to lead him through the garden, until they stood within the half-circle of menacing, sword-bearing men. 

“I give you a gift and you repay me by stealing my horse?” the villain hissed in D’Artagnan’s ear. 

D’Artagnan’s sole solace for the moment was the knowledge that his muddy clothes were most assuredly ruining Rochefort’s fine attire, the way he was pressing up against him. But the knowledge did little to appease him when his mother and father appeared in the frame of the front door with horrified expressions plastered on their faces.

“D’Art!” his mother yelled, and his father stood behind her with clenched fists. 

“You should have raised your son with better manners,” Rochefort called to D’Artagnan’s parents, the blade increasing its pressure as his fingers coiled painfully through a head of curly hair. “Twice in one day he has encumbered me. I have killed men for much less.” He wrenched D’Artagnan’s head back to look in his eyes as he said, “This boy’s life should do as payment for my grievances.”

“No!” his mother screamed, but D’Artagnan took notice, a heavy feeling in his chest, that neither parent made a genuine move forward. Not that he needed or wanted his mother and father to plunge at armed men to what would surely be their death, but a bit more distress at their only son in the hands of a madman might have been nice. 

D’Artagnan struggled against his captor, only to realize just how strong Rochefort was beneath that cape. He could feel the hard lines of muscle beneath all that finery, and it made him seriously doubt a doable escape plan. Perhaps in a duel he would be able to conquer the man, but in hand to hand combat? The fingers tightened even harder in his hair and D’Artagnan winced in pain. The dagger at his back, however, was being maintained of a pressure that reminded him it was there without breaking the skin. It seemed the uppity ex-musketeer was truly reticent of getting blood on his boots. 

Though a solid, unmoving presence in the doorframe, his mother was sobbing and hunched over with grief. “Please!” she begged. “Please, have mercy! He’s our only son!”

Rochefort spoke with a low growl in D’Artagnan’s ear. “See how you’ve upset them? Think how devastated they will be when your guts are spilt all over their pretty garden.”

“Are you going to kill me with no weapon in my hand, like a coward?” D’Artagnan rasped in return, voice strained from the awkward angle of his head, ushered in a backward bend by Rochefort’s cruel fist. But, though uncomfortable, the angle allowed for D’Artagnan to glimpse the play of intrigue over Rochefort’s face. His sharp cheekbones were highlighted by the setting sun, and his eye gleamed golden as it met D’Artagnan’s deep blue. It was a curious face, odd and calculating, and made even eerier when those delicate looking lips tugged into a closed-mouth grin. 

“That depends,” Rochefort answered in a whisper, and then, loudly and for all to hear, he announced, “The insult paid me is punishable by death, but I am not a heartless man. I’ve a proposal that might be suitable for all parties, if you’d like to hear it.”

D’Artagnan scowled, but his mother was clapping her hands together in a desperate prayer. “Please!” she cried. “Anything! Mercy, mercy.”

The fingers in D’Artagnan’s hair left him with a final, stinging yank, and fell, instead, to his arm in a bruising clutch. The dagger’s tip remained at his back. “I demand your son’s life,” Rochefort declared, “but it need not be delivered in blood. His servitude will do, for one year’s time, and then you can have him back. You’ll love him better for it, I’m sure. I can instill in him the manners you neglected to teach. So what do you say? I spare your thieving boy’s life, and he remains with me until his time is done.” He tipped his head, his feather dancing. “Fair?”

“No!” D’Artagnan balked, bucking in revolt and causing the blade at his back to cut through his billowy shirt, slicing the skin. Rochefort put the dagger away and held D’Artagnan’s smaller body with both hands. He struggled aimlessly in the steel grip, thrashing, trying to head-butt Rochefort, but the villain grabbed him by the nape of his neck, like one would hold a misbehaving kitten, and D’Artagnan could only flail his arms stupidly, all thought to the sword at his belt lost to him. Infuriated, he yelled, “Let go of me, bastard! I will be no slave of yours! Better to kill me!”

“D’Art, no!” his mother screamed. “We accept your offer of kindness! We do! Absolutely, we do. Just please don’t hurt our boy!”

“Mother!” D’Artagnan shot his parents a stricken glance as Rochefort’s chuckle rang in his ears. His parents were just standing there, watching. His father said nothing at all, and his mother only cried, and when the armed lackeys mounted their horses and Rochefort began dragging D’Artagnan away, they turned their backs to him. He screamed. They went inside to watch what happened next through the safety of the kitchen window. “No!” 

“Twice saved and not a word of gratitude,” Rochefort laughed, directing D’Artagnan’s unwilling body to the stable. “No bother, I’ll make a thankful man of you yet. I assume my horse is in here?” Rochefort shoved him forward, his hand grabbing D’Artagnan’s sword from its buckle as he fell to his hands and knees.

D’Artagnan scurried to his feet, breathing hard as he turned to face Rochefort, who held his sword and spun it idly in his hand. “I won’t yield to you,” he spat. 

Rochefort was upon him in two strides, long legs bringing him an inch from D’Artagnan’s face as his fist grabbed hold of his shirt collar. “Oh, I disagree.” He threw D’Artagnan’s sword into a pile of hay, and then he swept him off his feet. D’Artagnan landed with a thud across Rochefort’s horse, stomach down. Buttercup was snorting in disapproval and stomping her hooves, until Rochefort held out an open palm. She sniffed at it, and then ate the offered sugar cube. “Good girl,” muttered the terrible man. “If you behave,” he said, directing his gaze to D’Artagnan wriggling on the huge horse, “you get a sugar cube, too.” 

D’Artagnan yelled that he was a fiend who would pay for treating a musketeer in such a way, but that only made Rochefort’s laugh heartier as he unknotted the ropes of his horse’s restraint. 

“Stop your whining,” Rochefort commanded, landing a hard smack to D’Artagnan’s behind.

That momentarily silenced him, but he still raged within, trembling with ire for the man mounting the horse behind him and gripping the reins with a single hand while the other rested over D’Artagnan’s back, holding him in place as he rode the horse from the stable. 

“Mind the mud,” Rochefort leaned down to whisper over D’Artagnan’s potato-sacked body. His hand held tight against D’Artagnan’s back as he whistled for the horse to gallop. The sound of more horses followed suit and the next thing he knew, D’Artagnan was watching the ground blur before his eyes as he was carried away from his home. Before long, they were hitting the main road, and Rochefort was sure to lead his horse through a deep puddle that splattered D’Artagnan’s face with mud.

 

\--

 

The ride was rough and by the time muddy road made way for damp grass, D’Artagnan’s neck was aching from being jostled, and though a firm hand had kept him from sliding off the horse’s back, his stomach hurt from the bouncing, and his toes were numb in his boots. Sunset had led to night, and now that Rochefort and his men had ridden clear of town, only a half-moon lit the scene. It was a skinny relief when Rochefort whistled to the others shortly after, and they all slowed their horses to a stop. 

Rochefort slid from the saddle, and D’Artagnan couldn’t stop his anguished groan when he felt strong hands winding around his waist and lifting him off the horse. But his bones were jelly, and when Rochefort tried to set him to his feet, he swayed, and then collapsed.

“Tsk, tsk,” Rochefort disparaged to the amusement of his men. The villain knelt down before D’Artagnan with a frown drenched in sarcasm. “Hard ride?” D’Artagnan glared with, what he hoped, was his most threatening look, but Rochefort only seemed to take nourishment from his venom. He brushed the hair from D’Artagnan’s eyes and said, “Will you be good for the rest of the journey? I’ll let you sit in the saddle like a grown up.”

Seeing no path of escape and no immediate hope on his horizon, D’Artagnan spat at Rochefort’s boots. 

The twitch of displeasure on the man’s face was obvious, but brief. D’Artagnan was expecting another slap to the face, and was confused when Rochefort reached into a pocket and brought out two handkerchiefs. He was pondering who carried around two handkerchiefs when Rochefort delivered his slap, hitting D’Artagnan so hard that his lips fell slack in shock. It was in that vulnerable moment that Rochefort placed his first handkerchief over D’Artagnan’s open mouth and tied it at the back of his head, effectively gagging him. 

D’Artagnan thrashed his head, hands flying up to free himself, but Rochefort slapped him again, and then wrapped his second kerchief over D’Artagnan’s eyes. Gagged and blindfolded, D’Artagnan could do nothing but groan and trip over his numb feet as he tried to get away. He fell, of course, and rolled onto his side, but Rochefort didn’t let him alone for long. After a round of chuckles with his lackeys, he pulled D’Artagnan to his feet. When he spoke, it was so close to his face that D’Artagnan tried to jump back, only to be held in place by bossy fingers at both wrists. 

“Now, do I need to tie your hands behind your back, or will you behave?” Rochefort said in a low, chest-deep rumble. 

For his response, D’Artagnan groaned a muffled insult from behind his gag, achieving nothing but an uncomfortable dribble of spit at the corners of his mouth. All was dark to him, and when the hands picked him up by the waist and set him atop the horse, D’Artagnan had no choice but to sit still, lest he lose his blind balance and fall. A moment later, Rochefort was heaving himself into the saddle behind him, the front of his body pressing flush against D’Artagnan. Rochefort’s breath heated the back of D’Artagnan’s neck as arms wrapped around his middle to take control of the reins. 

“That’s better,” Rochefort uttered, and D’Artagnan squirmed in discomfort, only succeeding in grinding against the hard body at his back. “Better still,” whispered the man, his voice making the hair stand rigid on the back of D’Artagnan’s neck. He tried to scoot further away, but his efforts only caused an awkward friction against Rochefort’s hips, and he decided, after a minute’s hopeless gyrations, that it would be best to keep still. D’Artagnan plotted that if he kept himself pliant and obedient for the journey, he could lure Rochefort into a false sense of confidence that his captive would not escape. Then D’Artagnan would have his moment, kill the dreadful Rochefort, and make for the hills. He was convinced that it could be executed, but that didn’t make it any easier when Rochefort whistled for the horses to continue their gallop, and D’Artagnan’s body rubbed rhythmically against the villain. 

He prayed for a quick journey to wherever it was he was being taken, and that the unbidden swell in his trousers would calm itself before then.

 

\--

 

The ride seemed to go on forever, and the sensation of endlessness was made all the more discomfiting without the benefit of sight. Unable to track their progression, D’Artagnan quickly lost himself in the lulling movements of the horse. His untimely erection was no issue after the initial onset of their journey, as the wind on his face was so cold, D’Artagnan’s bodily excitement dragged in exchange for terrible shivers that made his shoulders shake and his teeth clatter. His head hanged tiredly in an attempt to keep the frosty air from chapping his cheeks, and he was in a perpetual circle of nodding off and snapping into awareness, nearly leaning further against the heat at his back, when a weight draped across his shoulders. D’Artagnan’s muscles relaxed slightly as his body was encased in warmth, and it was only after a few minutes of confused relief when he realized Rochefort had wrapped him in his cape.

 

\--

 

D’Artagnan was in the strange space between wakefulness and dreams when the horses finally stopped for good, and then Rochefort lifted out of the saddle, and the loss of his body heat was jarring. The sound of horses being led away and doors opening and closing had D’Artagnan twisting around in the saddle, until hands squeezed around his waist and hauled him down. He was grateful when he found he could hold himself up without aid, but the hands remained firm around his waist for a few minutes, as orders were called out. 

Rochefort’s voice boomed crisp at his side, and D’Artagnan flexed his unbound hands experimentally. He couldn’t see, but he could hear, and it sounded as though many souls were scampering around him. It might prove difficult to escape in such conditions, and D’Artagnan’s fingers were frozen with cold. Would it not be smarter to await a better opportunity? It wasn’t as though his life were in immediate danger. He could escape just as easily after a decent rest, when his muscles were calmed and his extremities were thawed. 

In a second, his decision was made for him as commanding hands led him out of the cold night and into a warm interior. He could hear the crackling of a fire.

“I want him washed and brought to my room,” Rochefort said, and D’Artagnan tried to follow the sound of his deep voice as it moved swiftly away. 

Delicate hands softly touched him at the shoulders and he was led from one room into another, and, following the click of a door’s lock, the barrage of sound disappeared. D’Artagnan suffered through another inhale’s lack of sight before the light touch slipped the blindfold from his face, the gag directly after. D’Artagnan coughed, blinking hard at the bright lights, which weren’t all that bright but for the fact that he’d been in the dark for hours. The edges of his mouth were irritated from the gag and he rubbed his face with a moan. 

When his eyes had adjusted fully, he saw the woman. Well, she was more of a young lady, D’Artagnan supposed, with big almond eyes and dark hair, a delicate, petite frame. She reminded him of Anne, although Anne, for the time he knew her, anyway, never came at him with a giant bucket of water.

“My lady,” D’Artagnan tried, backing away from the bucket-wielding woman until he hit brick. “Where am I?” She set down her bucket, sloshing sudsy water to the floor, but did not answer. Instead, she kept coming at him with her fingers outstretched. He tried to politely keep from her touch, but he was trapped in a corner and had no choice but to allow it when her hands began removing the muddy clothes from his body. 

He took no delight in being stripped so, but her fingers were nimble and quick, and she was rather stronger than her frame hinted, all but man-handling D’Artagnan’s puffy shirt from his chest, and making swift work of his trousers, as well! All the while, as the humiliation was conducted, he tried his best to charm information from her, but her mouth was a steel safe that, for him, would not budge.

“I am a musketeer,” he told her, sighing heavily as she dropped to her knees and yanked the boots from his feet. “This is all a grave mistake on your master’s part,” he continued, face reddening when she pulled his undergarments off, not even blinking an eye at the impropriety. Never had D’Artagnan been thusly bared before a lady, and his hands tried to cover everything at once. Not that the young lady - whom he now had to assume was a servant of Rochefort and in no habit of betraying her master - cared in the slightest that D’Artagnan was near death by mortification. She bundled up his mud-ruined clothes and threw them down a hatch in the wall. Then she silently pointed to the bucket of soapy water, motioning for D’Artagnan to turn round with her finger as she came at him with a sponge.

She bathed him, plain and simple, working the sponge into a vigorous lather over his back, front…everywhere. She left no surface of skin unscrubbed, with cold, efficient hands that rubbed soapy, merciless circles. And when she was done, and D’Artagnan was shivering and sparkling-clean, she handed him a fresh bundle of clothes and left the room without a word. 

D’Artagnan stood uncertainly, staring at the clothes in his hands. He waited a moment more, listening for sounds outside the room, but he heard nothing but a few muffled mumblings. Though the first room he’d been led to had been warm, and he’d heard within it the roar of a fire, the room he occupied now was a mere washroom, empty but for the washing buckets and an assortment of soaps. It was cold, and his skin was still damp, his hair too, so after a short debate with himself, he decided it wouldn’t be the worst thing to adorn the clothing Rochefort had sent. He could kill the man just as easily, whether he wore his clothes or not. 

D’Artagnan put on the provided clothing: a soft, black shirt and soft, black trousers, simple to the eye, but expensive to the touch, made of superior material that felt like heaven against D’Artagnan’s fingertips. There were no shoes included, but a thick pair of wooly socks that were warm when he slipped them on, as if they’d been laid out beside the fire to promote toastiness. He felt clean for the first time all day, and the clothes fitted him perfectly, though they were a tad more form-fitting than he usually dressed, and he noted with a frown that underclothes had not been included. He padded around the washroom, stalling for time, before he made his decision. He would knock on the door, the little maid would open it, and D’Artagnan would overpower her (respectfully and without unnecessary damage to her person) and then he would slip out of the wherever-he-was and make his escape. Yes! Wonderful plan. 

It went wrong as soon as he knocked on the door and a ginormous man opened it. Armed and grumpy, he grabbed onto D’Artagnan with great, meaty hands and began pulling him dramatically from the washroom. D’Artagnan slapped at him, but to no avail. He felt like an ant beside a giant, and once they reached a spiraling staircase, D’Artagnan had no choice but to walk in step beside his guard; he was sure, if he resisted, he would be dragged along anyway, possibly by the hair. 

Luckily, the journey from washroom to Rochefort’s bedroom was none too far, and after a brief few minutes of being semi-assaulted by the huge guard, D’Artagnan was thrown roughly through an ornately carved door of cedar. He fell to his hands and knees, saving himself from a face full of carpet, and heard the door slam shut behind him. 

“Hello, Little Thief.”

D’Artagnan lifted his head. Rochefort was sitting in an armchair before a fireplace, hat off, hair combed out from its tieback. He had changed out of his garb from before, and into something less binding. A white, flowy top and black trousers of similar make to D’Artagnan’s. He was barefoot, his legs crossed and his deep arches a silhouette against the golden light of the fire. His ungloved hands steepled elegantly beneath his bearded chin. The black eye patch remained unmoved and unchanged, and D’Artagnan felt a glimmer of wonder for what atrocity lay beneath. 

“Come. Warm yourself by the fire, Little Thief.”

D’Artagnan sat back on his heels, considering for a moment. The fire looked awfully warm, and the dampness of his hair had him in a chilled state. It would, he reasoned, be easier to throttle the villain from the nearer distance of the fireplace anyway, and with that reassurance, he stood and walked to the furry rug in front of the fire. The instant heat at his back made his eyes shut involuntarily for a half-second. When he opened them again, Rochefort was watching him, his one eye glinting a malevolent amber. 

“I had a thought I might cut off your hands,” Rochefort said, shifting in his chair, his legs uncrossing so both feet were planted firmly on the rug. 

D’Artagnan took a small step back, swallowing hard. He had seen andirons beside the fireplace; he could grab one and use it as a weapon. But when his arm flinched behind him, Rochefort was up from his chair and taking D’Artagnan’s hands in his, squeezing, rubbing the skin along his palms, and over the backs of his fingers, and tracing lightly across his wrists. 

“It would be no more than what a thief deserves,” Rochefort continued. His body radiated heat, and D’Artagnan felt pinioned between the crackling fireplace and the force of man before him that probed at his fingers, tugging gently at each digit, as if testing for something. “But I have decided that would be a waste. You have such soft, lovely hands. It would be a shame to chop them, when I can think of much better uses.” D’Artagnan recoiled, but Rochefort held him firm. “I will allow you your pretty hands, Little Thief, but do not think you are above punishment for your crimes against me.”

“I am not a thief!” D’Artagnan said, struggling against the iron grip of his captor. “I am D’Artagnan, a musketeer, and you will pay for what you’ve done!”

D’Artagnan actually expected Rochefort to laugh in his face at his proclamation, but his reaction was quite contrary. His face was stern, serious, as he mulled over D’Artagnan’s words. They stared at one another heatedly for a few moments that lasted entirely too long for D’Artagnan’s liking, and then Rochefort struck. He sat back down in the armchair, pulling D’Artagnan down with him, a hand twisting in his hair, forcing him across his knees, stomach down.

“Unhand me!” D’Artagnan thrashed wildly, but Rochefort was so much bigger, so much stronger, and where he willed him, D’Artagnan was incapable of resisting. He ended up laid out over Rochefort’s lap, his head dangling over one end, his legs dangling off the other, and his arms awkwardly crushed beneath him. He fumed, breathing hard, large hands holding him in place by the neck and across the back. D’Artagnan’s exhale was one of vocalized anguish, and the hand over his back began to rub circles down his spine.

“Hush, D’Artagnan,” Rochefort soothed. D’Artagnan shivered at the sound of his name on the monster’s tongue, warped around that accent like a sword around soft flesh. “You will take your punishment with dignity, because you are a musketeer, yes?”

“You know nothing of what it means to be a musketeer, you swine,” D’Artagnan reproached haughtily. No sooner had the last word left his lips than Rochefort’s hand came down upon his backside in a brutal slap.

“Oh!” D’Artagnan yelled, shocked frozen as his ass cheek burned with pain. 

Rochefort hushed him again, and the hand at D’Artagnan’s neck slid down to press between his shoulder blades. The second hand came down in a second blow, a stinging smack that had D’Artagnan bucking in protest. “Be still or this will take longer,” Rochefort warned. His hand came down again and again in quick succession, delivering a strong series of violent spankings to D’Artagnan’s backside. 

Never in his life had he been so humiliated. Rochefort spanked him relentlessly, his broad palm raining down slap after slap. D’Artagnan made no noise save the ones he was powerless to stop, like the tiny puffs of air that escaped his lips every time Rochefort smacked his ass. He shut his eyes against their watering, overwhelmed from the sensation, the burning, tingling pain that spread across his vulnerable buttocks like fire, the fine fabric of his trousers far too thin, allowing him to feel every smack as though delivered directly to his bare skin. 

Above him, Rochefort worked tirelessly, grunting with each blow, but never diminishing in vigor. D’Artagnan lost count of how many times he’d been hit, and after what felt like an eon of high tension torture, his body just sort of…gave out. He relaxed into the hand that was spanking him, his body going limp across Rochefort’s lap. So worn was he that he did not realize the blows had ceased until Rochefort spoke, his hand gently cascading across the expanse of D’Artagnan’s wrecked backside.

“D’Artagnan?”

Rochefort’s voice was low, deep, and empty of fresh threat, and D’Artagnan groaned softly, his head lolling weakly off the side of Rochefort’s thigh. 

“You will think doubly hard before you act for my displeasure again, won’t you?” D’Artagnan moaned, and the hand rubbing his ass clenched suddenly, sinking nails into aching muscle. “Use your words.”

“Yes,” D’Artagnan whimpered. The nails left his ass, and the comforting palm’s gentle caress resumed. 

Rochefort stroked him a moment longer, and D’Artagnan nearly drifted to sleep, exhausted of body and mind and soul, and the crackling fire was pleasant to his ears, and Rochefort’s body felt hot and comfortable against his – 

Oh.

Oh no.

No, no, no.

D’Artagnan leapt from Rochefort’s lap so quickly that he tangled up in his own feet and crashed to the floor with a bang. Rochefort did not stir from his chair, only re-crossed his legs and steepled his hands beneath his chin, the unbothered posture of the serene.

“Good idea. It is doubtlessly past your bedtime,” Rochefort said coolly. 

D’Artagnan’s face was burning as red as his ass, but he looked up at Rochefort, throwing as much hatred into the stare as he could muster. Rochefort smiled and snapped his fingers, and the giant guard from before burst through the door.

“Take my Little Thief to his room,” Rochefort instructed. 

And D’Artagnan was lifted off the ground by giant hands. He stumbled on his feet, dizzy and aching and his ass on fire, but he put up no fight as the guard led him from the room. He wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. He didn’t want Rochefort to see that his cock was harder than it had ever been in his entire life. 

The guard ushered him swiftly from the room, and the light was so dim, D’Artagnan hoped that Rochefort hadn’t seen. But then…seeing was hardly the issue. D’Artagnan had been strewn across his lap with that hard-on for god knows how long before he realized. Maybe Rochefort hadn’t noticed. Maybe the angle had been to D’Artagnan’s benefit and Rochefort had never felt the stiffness burgeoning between his captive’s legs. 

D’Artagnan stole a final glance over his shoulder at Rochefort before the guard shut the door to his bedroom. The man was staring into the fire, giving zero mind to D’Artagnan now that he had been dismissed. 

The door shut, D’Artagnan followed suit to his room, wincing with every step, and when the guard opened the door and shut D’Artagnan within, he heaved a sigh and threw himself down face first to the bed. It was plush, with rich silk pillows and a downy, white comforter. But the pressure on his cock was too much and he had to roll to his side. His hand itched to touch himself, to stroke out his discomfort. But he couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he derived pleasure from Rochefort’s humiliating punishment. A frustrated tear rolled down D’Artagnan’s cheek as he pulled the covers over his head. 

He lay in the quiet dark and assessed his miseries one by one. It was a while before he fell asleep, and even then, he dreamed of large hands, striking.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day hit hard. When he woke, he hurt everywhere. The skin on his backside was bruised blue and purple, but worse was the dried, crusty stain on the sheets beneath him. D’Artagnan rolled over in the bed and ran a hand through his wild hair. The position made his ass hurt; he could feel his pulse there, thumping and hot. 

He waited, feeling sure Rochefort would call for him that morning, but morning came and went, and the only caller to his door was the little woman with a plate of food. Grapes and soft bread with cheese. D’Artagnan ate it all in his ravenous state, and then resumed to wait nervously. Lunch arrived. Dinner. And then, after the longest day of his life, he fell asleep amongst the soft cushions. Rochefort hadn’t wanted to see him that day.

Rochefort didn’t want to see him for several days. An entire week passed before D’Artagnan was summoned, and when it happened, it was abrupt. The giant guard entered the room and grabbed D’Artagnan by the arm, never letting him go until they were standing in the stable, and then he unceremoniously threw him into the hay. 

“That’s not necessary,” said Rochefort, who was leaned against a horse stall, in no feathery hat, but a heavily laced top and figure-accentuating trousers of suede. Rochefort looked D’Artagnan over as he shuffled to his feet and wiped away the sticks of hay stuck in his clothes. “Take care to treat our new addition with the softness he requires.” The guard grunted, nodded at Rochefort, and then exited the stables.

D’Artagnan appraised Rochefort warily. 

“Did you think I’d forgotten you?” asked Rochefort. 

“No, but I had hoped,” D’Artagnan snapped. 

Rochefort smiled and D’Artagnan caught himself staring at the long fingers tapping at his chin pensively. Those fingers, attached to that broad palm, had left the bruises on his backside that had only recently begun to fade. He could feel a phantom slap in that moment, when he shut his eyes, and hear the clapping echo of a cupped hand wholloping his fleshy cheek.

“Since you’ve an affinity for horses, I thought you might groom one of my favorites.” Rochefort motioned to the stall he leaned upon. “Come.”

D’Artagnan glanced at the horse, a beautiful gelding with a roan coat. Rochefort narrowed his one eye at D’Artagnan and crooked his finger beckoningly until D’Artagnan moved forward to man and horse.

“Touch him,” Rochefort ordered gently.

The horse snorted and D’Artagnan moved a bit closer, reaching out a tentative hand until his fingers grazed its snout. 

“Good.” Rochefort opened the door of the stall for D’Artagnan and lifted his eyebrows expectantly. D’Artagnan walked through and Rochefort closed the door, but he remained right there, on the other side, watching him intently. 

“What do you want me to do?” D’Artagnan asked after an uncomfortable pause. Rochefort was nearly unblinking in his gaze, and D’Artagnan’s skin was tingling beneath his unfaltering attention. 

“Pick up that brush, D’Artagnan.”

D’Artagnan followed Rochefort’s instructive eye to a thick bristled brush lying in a bucket behind him. He looked questioningly at Rochefort, who nodded, and then D’Artagnan turned, bending over for the requested item. But once his fingers were around the brush’s handle, Rochefort delivered a second instruction.

“Wait.”

A blush crept into D’Artagnan’s cheeks as he remained bent over the bucket. He was very aware that his ass was stuck up in the air, and that Rochefort was watching him like a snake. He was also of the awareness that, in order to remedy his discomfort, all he need do was straighten and turn. But D’Artagnan remained bent over, brush in hand, holding his breath and waiting.

Rochefort was still, and though D’Artagnan couldn’t see him, his presence was a beacon of energy. Even the horse could feel it; it whinnied, making D’Artagnan jump slightly, and only then did Rochefort direct him to stand.

When he turned back to the man, brush in hand, he kept his face cast downward, so as not to showcase his blush, and yet, as soon as Rochefort’s deep voice rumbled, “Eyes up,” D’Artagnan acquiesced with a scalding quickness. A small gasp left his lips, surprise at his own obedience. His body felt wired, strung-out and hot. All he could do was watch Rochefort watching him. His hand was a vice around the brush handle.

“Brush the horse, D’Artagnan,” Rochefort demanded in a low, even tone.

With an immediacy that had D’Artagnan contemplating witchery, his hand flew to fulfill the command, one hand smoothing comfortingly over the horse’s snout while the other hand guided the brush down the animal’s sinewy neck. 

“Slowly.”

D’Artagnan stole a sideward glance at Rochefort, beneath his thick, long lashes. The man’s voice sounded calm enough, but his face was no longer stoic. His lips were parted by the tip of his tongue, and his patchless eye was blown black by pupil. A strand of hair had fallen from its tie and was hanging loose across his forehead.

Slowly, D’Artagnan brushed the horse; long, careful strokes with a meticulous hand. The stable was silent save for the subtle sounds of live animals and the heavy breathing of two men. Every so often, Rochefort would utter a new command and D’Artagnan would dash to comply, mystified by his eagerness to please such a villain. ‘Tuck that hair behind your ear,’ Rochefort would say. ‘Check the horseshoe. Stay like that for a moment, please, D’Artagnan.’ 

It felt like they were in that stable for hours, but it could not have been more than thirty minutes. Thirty minutes of a slow-burning tumult in D’Artagnan’s stomach that crept ever downward, until his groin tingled and the dangerous tells of hardness began to pulse. Cheeks red, D’Artagnan tried to maintain his body at a discreet angle, but Rochefort didn’t allow it. He noticed when the musketeer was trying to mask his reaction, and ordered D’Artagnan to face him fully. 

Reluctantly, D’Artagnan turned. His erection was beyond hiding, tenting his soft trousers obscenely. Already, D’Artagnan knew better than to look away, knew that Rochefort would only re-summon his eyes, so he kept them trained ahead, staring at the gold details of the man’s eye patch, while trying not to let the tears stinging his eyes roll free. The embarrassment flared high in his chest, and he couldn’t seem to catch his breath, but as Rochefort continued to stare, his eye raking over his body, up, down, and languid, D’Artagnan only grew harder. 

“Return your brush to the bucket,” Rochefort said.

Grateful to have leave to turn away, D’Artagnan returned the brush, making his movement of bending over purposefully slow in anticipation of Rochefort’s command. He stayed bent over for a span of deep breaths, brush deposited into the bucket, and then, finally, he stood, returning his full attention to Rochefort.

The man watched him a time longer, not speaking, only looking. D’Artagnan found his eyes darting lower, trying to suss out whether Rochefort sported a similar state as he, but the door of the stall blocked Rochefort’s lower half, and a condition of arousal could not be discerned. Rochefort cocked his head at D’Artagnan’s wandering eyes and then he snapped his fingers. 

The giant guard returned to the stables instantly, and D’Artagnan realized he’d been there all along, waiting just outside. He strode up to D’Artagnan and Rochefort stood aside as the man opened the stall door to let him out. Then he – delicately! – took hold of D’Artagnan’s shoulder.

“Good. Take him back to his room,” Rochefort directed with a casual wave of his hand. He didn’t even glance at D’Artagnan as he was taken, and D’Artagnan did his best not to look over his shoulder, but he ended up stealing a last look anyway. Rochefort was petting the freshly groomed horse on its snout and seemed to be whispering something in its ear. A small smile spread across Rochefort’s face as he spoke to the animal, and D’Artagnan felt himself smiling in response. But only for a moment, and then he remembered his reality and grimness gripped his heart anew. 

Once returned to his room, D’Artagnan paced the floors. It took a long time for his hardness to relent, and then he was left alone with the horrific question of why he’d been hard in the first place.

 

\--

 

More time passed and D’Artagnan spent most of it in his allotted room, either looking out his window or halfheartedly planning his escape, but some days, the guard would come to him. On such occasions, D’Artagnan would allow himself to be led throughout the fortress, for that was what it proved to be, and he would apply himself to whatever menial tasks Rochefort assigned. Sometimes, Rochefort would be there, and he would watch D’Artagnan while he scrubbed the floor or watered the indoor plants. Other times, Rochefort was nowhere to be seen. D’Artagnan wasn’t sure whether or not he preferred the villain’s presence. In a way, he treasured it, for it was the only interaction he had besides the maid who brought him meals and the guard who hauled him from place to place. He estimated nearly a month had passed since the night he’d been captured, and since the night he’d been thrown over Rochefort’s knee and punished. That was, excluding the rough hand on his elbow from the guard, the last time D’Artagnan had been touched. 

The current hour was late, after dinner, and he leaned against his window, relishing the chill breeze that tickled his skin. He was touch starved, that’s what it was. That was the only reason why, every night as he lay down to sleep, his mind went back to that first night, when he’d been spanked in front of the fireplace, and Rochefort had rubbed circles over his back. He’d never realized the importance of simple human contact before. A friend’s hand on his shoulder, a kiss on his cheek from his mother, even a slap on the face; he thought of those things whimsically now. 

And then, he had an idea.

D’Artagnan waited by the door for the maid to come round for his empty dinner plate. And when she did, he shoved past her, dashing out into the hallway. He knew that he couldn’t escape in that manner, but escape was not his goal, and when he turned the sharp corner of the hallway, he ran straight into the giant guard, who caught him instantly, as D’Artagnan had hoped, and began dragging him towards Rochefort’s bedroom.

The guard knocked lightly on the cedar, and D’Artagnan could hear Rochefort’s muffled voice permitting their entry. D’Artagnan was shoved through the door, the guard keeping a tight hold around his arm. Rochefort, who was standing at his bookshelf, dressed for bed, looked up at them, with an expression of mild surprise. 

“Is there a problem?” he asked.

“The boy was trying to escape, Master Rochefort,” grunted the guard. 

“Ah. I see.” Rochefort turned from the books and waltzed up to D’Artagnan, pressing his fingertips beneath D’Artagnan’s chin to lift his head. His eye was bright with interest. Without looking at the guard, he said, “You may leave us. Thank you.” 

The guard mumbled something and left them. D’Artagnan swallowed hard when the door shut with a click. 

Rochefort waited a moment, his fingers tracing delicately under D’Artagnan’s chin, and then he snatched him by the hair and hauled him backwards. 

“Argh!” D’Artagnan yelped, but Rochefort, of course, paid him no mind. He sat at the end of his bed, dragging D’Artagnan with him, and forced him over his knees. D’Artagnan struggled, blushing crimson at the strong hands holding him immobile, and then, unlike the last time, Rochefort’s fingers slipped beneath the waist of D’Artagnan’s soft trousers and yanked, pulling them down around his thighs. 

D’Artagnan’s ass was bared completely, and his stiffening cock was pressed in-between Rochefort’s legs. He hissed at the first contact of skin on skin as Rochefort’s hand gently caressed across D’Artagnan’s ass cheeks, left to right, and, for a heart-stopping instant, up and down the crack. 

“Do not move,” Rochefort demanded, “but feel free to make noise. This will hurt.”

D’Artagnan shivered, and his hands wrapped around Rochefort’s ankle for support. The first smack was delivered. The strike was so hard, so stinging that D’Artagnan could not hold back the gasp of pain. Rochefort hummed approvingly as his palm glided over the pinkening flesh of D’Artagnan’s ass cheek, and then he hit him again. Slap after slap, D’Artagnan tried to keep still across the man’s lap, but each blow had him writhing. His hips bucked involuntarily, and Rochefort’s knees closed slightly, adding friction to D’Artagnan’s swollen crock trapped betwixt. 

His breathing became brutalized pants, and the slapping of skin as Rochefort spanked him brought a sheen of sweat to D’Artagnan’s brow. Even Rochefort was affected, which D’Artagnan noticed when he shifted marginally in his lap, trying to relieve the pressure on his privates. It was then he brushed against a hardness that stole his breath completely. The hand spanked him pitilessly, and Rochefort grunted with the effort, but D’Artagnan was out of his body when he felt Rochefort’s hard-on rubbing against his own. Then, the groan that was pushed from his mouth by the slap to his ass was not of pain, but pleasure. D’Artagnan shut his eyes and let the strength of Rochefort’s punishing hand grind him back and forth across his lap. Their erections rubbed together with every slap and D’Artagnan’s moans grew louder, less restrained. He was getting close, so close, and after a month of no release, he was desperate for it. 

Rochefort stopped. 

D’Artagnan was panting pathetically, and Rochefort smoothed his hand across the abused flesh. When a finger slipped between his cheeks, just for a moment, barely a touch, D’Artagnan was done for. His body seized and his cock throbbed, and he came, hard and messy and…all over Rochefort’s pants. 

Oh.

The rush of regret was instant, but he couldn’t simply leap from the man’s lap as he had done last time, so he stayed draped across Rochefort’s knees, breathing hard. Rochefort’s breathing, as a small comfort, was also moderately strained, and the hardness still in his trousers was evident. D’Artagnan knew he must have felt the wet heat soaking his thighs, but he did not mention it; he only continued to lightly brush his fingers over D’Artagnan’s raw skin. 

A humiliating tear dropped from D’Artagnan’s eye to the furry rug. The fireplace crackled.

It was exactly what D’Artagnan had wanted.

But why? Why had he wanted it so badly? And now what was he to do? 

A tiny sob ripped from D’Artagnan’s throat, and Rochefort finally moved, but not to get up, not at first. First, he reached behind them on the bed where they sat, and retrieved the velvety blanket laid across. Rochefort wrapped the blanket over D’Artagnan’s nakedness and only then did he carefully handle him out of his lap. They both stood, D’Artagnan with his head down, staring at the pants he still wore that were bunched up around his ankles. 

“Step out of them,” Rochefort said, and D’Artagnan stepped. He dared an upward glance, but the journey of his eyes was cut short when they landed upon the stain of Rochefort’s trousers. White, dripping shame. D’Artagnan felt sick. He thought of the andiron and how quickly he could run himself through with it. He thought of the window in his room and whether he could squeeze through enough to fall, fall to his death and live on only in the mind of Rochefort, who would certainly tell everyone of the ridiculous Little Thief who came all over his thighs during his spanking. 

PATHETIC, PATHETIC, PATHETIC. No musketeer would have done it. And worst of all was the insane way D’Artagnan had reached for it to happen. He had wanted it. What was wrong with him to have wanted it?

“D’Artagnan.”

Rochefort’s voice bid his attention, and D’Artagnan relinquished it, leaving the messy trousers for one very serious eye. 

“Use my basin to wash yourself. I’ll be right back,” the man said. He dropped down to one knee and D’Artagnan gasped, but all he did was pick up the discarded trousers. But he did linger, D’Artagnan thought, if only for a second longer than he needed. Rochefort stood after that, motioned to the modest washing basin D’Artagnan had never noticed before, and left the bedroom through an inner door that did not lead out into the hallway, but somewhere else, a place unknown.

When D’Artagnan was alone in Rochefort’s room with no pants and a velvet blanket tied around his waist, he swiftly made way to the basin. The water was unexpectedly warm. He recalled the state of dress Rochefort was in and the late hour, and deduced that he had been about to wash up before bed when D’Artagnan had been brought to his room for punishment. Another wave of regret flowed through him. Not only had he found his release in Rochefort’s lap, he’d ruined the man’s bedtime routine, and somehow, strangely enough, that felt even worse. D’Artagnan was a ruinous force. He stared into the basin of water. Could he drown himself before Rochefort returned? 

A silly thought and one quickly dismissed. He would no sooner drown himself than he would run an andiron through his gut or jump from a high window. That was cowardice, and musketeers weren’t cowards. D’Artagnan straightened his shoulders and reached for a washrag. He dipped it into the warm water. As he washed the evidence of his madness from his stomach and groin, he resolved himself to a true escape attempt. 

He’d had a moment of weakness; that was all. The month of captivity had played out in his psyche and made him think he wanted things he would never usually want. D’Artagnan felt better once he was clean. He even shook his head and laughed. He didn’t want Rochefort, and he certainly didn’t desire to be spanked by him again. How foolish. A tale for his musketeer friends? Erm, no, but he was sure that once the whole shebackle was concluded and Rochefort was slain and all was righted that he would look back at the night’s transgressions and enjoy a small chuckle of laughter to himself.

Certainly, he would.

But in the meantime, he remained in Rochefort’s bedroom with naught but a blanket round his nethers. He walked from the basin and did what any musketeer worth his druthers would do in his situation. He had a look around. 

Rochefort’s bed, the place of the spanking, was fit for a king, down to its white, silken sheets and luxurious covers of down, but it were the books that caught D’Artagnan’s attention, piled high on the man’s bedside table, as well as stacked full on the shelf-lined walls. He walked to one of the bookshelves, tracing his finger along the spines. All were cracked from use. All had the look of being read and well-loved. There were different languages, but D’Artagnan could only read the French, and there were plenty of those. His finger came to rest on a familiar title, one he never would have guessed to live on a man such as Rochefort’s bookshelf. It was only a simple fairy story, and one D’Artagnan had loved when he was younger; there was a talking horse in it. He remembered the way Rochefort had been whispering to the horse in the stable and smiled.

The hand on his shoulder made D’Artagnan jump. He spun around and Rochefort was there, fresh trousers in his hands, which he held out for D’Artagnan to take. Rochefort had changed, as well. He was dressed only in a robe, with pretty, decorative swirls and a silk sash. The trousers he handed D’Artagnan were different from the ones before. Still black, but impossibly softer to the touch. The fabric felt like a feather’s kiss on his raw backside. And, coincidentally, no underclothes were provided. 

“Have you learned your lesson, D’Artagnan?” Rochefort asked.

A flare of odd feeling welled up in D’Artagnan’s throat as half his mind longed to say, ‘No, Rochefort, you must punish me harder,’ but his senses, blessedly, took control of his speech before his newest insanities could strike, and he nodded his head, answering with a simple, “Yes.”

“Good,” was Rochefort’s reply. He snapped his fingers and the guard returned through the door to collect D’Artagnan. Like last time, Rochefort ignored him as he was led from the room, and D’Artagnan refused to steal a final glance at him before the door shut. 

 

\--

 

The next morning, when D’Artagnan woke, there was a stack of books by his door, beside his breakfast plate, with a single note on top written in curling, pretty cursive. ‘For your pleasure,’ it read. That was all.

D’Artagnan grabbed a croissant from the plate and walked to the window, the handwritten note crumpled in his fist. He set it loose through the open window and it fell, the wind only slightly knocking its path northward on the wind. It was then, as he took a large buttery bite from the croissant, D’Artagnan spotted him. 

Rochefort was in the courtyard below, sword in hand, striking at a training dummy with repetitious footwork. The cling clang of metal to wood stormed D’Artagnan’s ears and he leaned his arms along the windowsill, resting his head on top. He quickly discovered that he liked watching, from far up and far away, so Rochefort couldn’t see him. The man’s practice was relentless, and D’Artagnan was on a borderline of hypnosis, observing the crisp swordsmanship and quick steps. Rochefort’s feathered hat was left off his head and his hair was untied. It swung, glittering in the sunlight, as he thrust forward and jumped backward. Always smooth. Always perfect. Had he the same look about his person when he’d brought his open palm down upon D’Artagnan’s bare skin?

He watched him all morning, eating his breakfast slowly and taking in the beauty of skill presented below him in the courtyard, and when Rochefort finally desisted in his regimen, D’Artagnan felt his lips turning into a frown. He wandered to the books stacked high by the door and sat cross-legged before them. He ran his finger down their spines and picked out the one on top, pulling it into his lap. It was the book he’d been looking at last night. 

D’Artagnan spent the day reading, sitting on his backside on occasion, if only to feel the thrum of pain from his spanking the night before.

 

\--

 

Days passed much the same, none of which D’Artagnan spent contemplating escape or a suicide. Rather, he read his books and watched Rochefort’s sword practice in the courtyard, an event that had become a regularity, even on one day’s insistence of rain. Rochefort was diligent in his practice. Perhaps that was why he was considered one of the greatest swordsmen in Europe. Of course, D’Artagnan knew his skill would be of similar par to his own. When Rochefort fought D’Artagnan, he would learn a thing or two about the craft. 

With that thought in his head, one day, D’Artagnan, in a fit of frustration, threw his half eaten croissant from the window. It hit Rochefort on top of his head, and the man paused for an instant before looking upward. D’Artagnan ducked his head back through the window in an attempt to hide. Shortly after, the sounds of Rochefort’s practicing filled the air again, and he breathed a sigh of relief. D’Artagnan was losing his mind. 

The guard appeared at his door minutes later, and D’Artagnan blinked at him questioningly. The guard just grunted incoherently, as was his nature, and took D’Artagnan’s arm. He led them through the fortress, down the spiraling staircase, and out the front door. 

The fresh air was wonderful, but even more wonder- inducing was Rochefort, who stood with two swords in his hand, and upon D’Artagnan’s arrival, tossed one towards him. D’Artagnan caught it expertly and stared between the weapon and Rochefort with a bewildered scowl. 

“Shall we see if your aim with a blade is as honed as your aim with pastry?” asked Rochefort with a quirk of his brow. 

D’Artagnan gripped the sword in his hand, fuzzy headed with disbelief. Had Rochefort really just handed him a weapon, and thusly sealed his own fate? That fate being his death, naturally. It was D’Artagnan’s chance, handed to him by his enemy! Now that was a story he could tell his friends! But first, he had to complete his task.

He did not linger over-long on his thoughts, and within a heartbeat or two, D’Artagnan struck, lightning fast with his blade. Rochefort blocked him easily, his strength battering away the tip of D’Artagnan’s sword with a simple swat that bent D’Artagnan’s wrist with a twinge. 

Rochefort held up his finger in pause and said, “If I lose, you are free to leave. If I win, you must train with me whenever I wish. Agreed?”

D’Artagnan’s eyebrows shot up on his forehead. The villain wished to make a deal of such caliber with him, his captive? 

“You may be rumored to be the greatest swordsman in Europe, swine, but that is only because you have not yet tested my blade,” D’Artagnan answered, voice heatedly strained. Now that the familiar weight of the sword was in his hand, so felt he the familiar weight in his stomach, the weight of excitement and knowledge that one was about to get what they wanted. “I agree to your deal.”

Rochefort smiled. And then it began, it being the most incredibly trying swordfight of D’Artagnan’s life. His own skill was worth boasting, he knew it in his heart, but Rochefort, the villain, was otherworldly; the way he moved! His purple-leather boots must have been tinkered by Hermes himself, because he seemed to float in the air with incredible speed, quick-footed and elegant, his face a picture of serenity, but his offensive swordwork brutally masterful. In minutes or less, D’Artagnan had already begun to lose his breath, and his defensive strikes lost their effectiveness, but Rochefort appeared to gain more strength and vigor as time went on, delivering each blow, graceful, mystifying cuts through the air, with a precision and beauty that left D’Artagnan agape. Utterly, stupidly agape. And before he knew what had happened, his sword was knocked free of his fingers and a push had him down on his knees.

Rochefort’s sword pointed at, but did not touch, D’Artagnan’s nose. “Do you surrender yourself unto me?”

D’Artagnan’s face was red as blood and he panted. He would not have lost to the terrible Rochefort if he had not been cooped up in a fortress for a whole month with no exercise or practice, and he told Rochefort that much, with a petulant snarl.

“It is good for you, then, that you will be practicing with me from now on,” replied Rochefort to D’Artagnan’s statement. He put away his sword and turned, turned his back on an enemy with a sword within his reach, the madman! 

But then again, D’Artagnan made no move to fetch the sword, did he? And the thought of attacking Rochefort while his back was turned, for some wild reason, never even crossed his mind.

 

\--

 

They practiced together every day. 

They did not necessarily speak to one another, but occasionally Rochefort would order D’Artagnan to correct his footing, pausing to show him, a large hand gliding over a slender ankle, how a position should be executed accurately. D’Artagnan allowed it, welcomed it, for when he practiced with Rochefort, he was not ordered other menial tasks to perform. He liked the fresh air and the exercise, and the improvement of his skill. And sometimes, during their sessions, Rochefort would seem genuinely impressed by D’Artagnan’s swordsmanship, and he would grin wide, showing sharp canines, and D’Artagnan would hold his head a bit higher for the rest of the day, which he spent reading his books. 

It was not, admittedly, the worst-case scenario for captivity. But he was a captive, and D’Artagnan reminded himself that every night when he lay down in his soft bed, still feeling the rush of phantom pain at remembrance of fingers, long and punishing, slapping over his naked backside.

 

\-- 

 

And so another month went by; another month wherein D’Artagnan planned an escape he never attempted; another month wherein he woke, excited, and spent the days in swordplay with the villainous Rochefort. Until one morning, he was not called down to the courtyard.

He waited patiently, tapping his chin at the windowsill and staring down at the empty courtyard, but the only knocks on his door that day were the ones given by the little maid, to give and take his meal plates. D’Artagnan paced his room. He shook his head and scolded himself for pacing, deciding, instead, to busy himself with a book, and surely Rochefort would be along for their practice soon. 

Rochefort never called for him that day, and D’Artagnan wrapped himself in the covers, trying not to feel disappointed. He hadn’t felt like seeing Rochefort, anyway. It was a good thing that he hadn’t come around. But tomorrow, D’Artagnan thought as his eyes closed, they would probably begin early, to make up for lost time. Best he got a decent night’s sleep.

D’Artagnan’s sleep was not decent and he was not called early to practice with Rochefort. In fact, Rochefort never appeared in the courtyard that entire next day; D’Artagnan knew because he spent the entire next day watching for him from the window. And the following day, he kept his ear pressed against his door, listening for Rochefort’s deep, carrying voice in the hall outside, but he never heard it. 

He began to wonder what he might have done wrong to deserve the complete isolation, for D’Artagnan was not called even for the completion of the simplest tasks. No busy work was assigned, no new books arrived for him to read, no nothing from anyone save his meals from the maid. 

Nearly a week passed, and D’Artagnan’s face was in a fixed grimace, until one night, long after he’d given up trying to read by candlelight and was tossing and turning in bed, he heard a horse’s whinny in the courtyard below. He flew from the bed, tripping over the covers wrapped around his legs, and came to the windowsill, peering out into the darkness.

Guards at the front door held torches, and their glare allowed D’Artagnan the sight he required to make out the slumped figure atop the horse. He gasped once his eyes had adjusted, for there, sliding from the saddle and into the giant guard’s arms, was the unmistakable figure of Rochefort. D’Artagnan stuck his head out the window as far as he dared, craning his neck to watch the scene below, full of whispers and a pained intake of breath, and why couldn’t Rochefort stand on his own? Why was the giant guard holding him upright? D’Artagnan couldn’t hear, and he could hardly see, and then the horse was being led back to the stables and Rochefort was being helped –helped!? – inside.

D’Artagnan did not sleep the rest of the night, too busy distractedly flattening his face against his door, trying to catch the most meager of clues as to what had happened. But besides a handful of echoing footsteps, D’Artagnan discerned no information. No bother, he resigned, when the sun was beginning to rise and he had been pacing his floor all night. After breakfast, he was positive he would be called to Rochefort, to scrub his floor or sharpen his sword, or something! Surely, now that Rochefort was back from wherever he had been, he would wish to see D’Artagnan. It wasn’t that D’Artagnan wanted to see Rochefort, not at all. He was only curious about the man’s whereabouts. 

But when the next day came and went with no summons, D’Artagnan was tugging irritably at his curls. And when the maid brought him his dinner, he dropped his plate in front of her as if by accident, and as she bent down to clean up the mess, he slipped past her, through the open door.

The hallway was empty and dimly lit, and it was not guarded as it had been when D’Artagnan had first escaped his room. He kept to the shadows of the walls and corners, evading the few men he passed in his journey, until suddenly he was outside his point of destination. He paused to gather his breath and his nerves, and then he carefully pushed open the cedar door.

Rochefort was sitting in his armchair by the fire, a book in his lap. When he spotted D’Artagnan entering and softly shutting the door behind him, he cocked his head and tucked a thick strand of hair behind his ear. Neither spoke for what felt like a lifetime, and when D’Artagnan finally did speak, it was with a voice more delicate than he’d intended.

“I slipped past the maid,” he said.

Rochefort closed his book and set it on the side table. His one eye shone fiercely in the firelight. “And wasted your freedom to find your way to my bedroom?” Rochefort tilted his head, cupping an ear as if listening for something. “It doesn’t sound as though any guards were alerted to your scheme. Why did you not try to escape?”

D’Artagnan’s eyes became wide and his mouth became dry. It was true; he’d not even considered leaving the fortress. He’d come straight to Rochefort. It had been all he’d wanted, all he’d been focused on, and now he was right there, had walked into what would surely prove to become another painful, humiliating punishment, and yet…Rochefort had not moved nary an inch since he’d entered. And more, when D’Artagnan took a step forward to truly study the man, he recognized the unusual rhythm of his breathing. Slow, careful inhales, married with a too-calm face. 

“You’re injured,” D’Artagnan accused, closing the distance between them with hurried steps. He knelt beside the armchair, the heat of the fire warming his back. 

“It’s nothing,” replied Rochefort coldly. 

“What happened?”

“Do not pry, Little Thief.”

“Tell me.”

“My patience is wearing thin.”

“Rochefort! How were you hurt?”

Rochefort grabbed D’Artagnan’s chin, squeezing hard. “You are not satisfied unless I’m beating you senseless,” he growled. D’Artagnan scoffed unhappily and Rochefort threw him to his backside onto the furry rug. “Stand up.”

D’Artagnan scrambled to his wooly-socked feet and refrained from rubbing his chin, which felt like it must be bruised from Rochefort’s harsh fingertips. 

“You are annoying,” Rochefort sighed, rubbing his temples. “And you have escaped your room yet again. These actions cannot go unpunished.”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes, but was extremely aware that Rochefort still had not moved from the armchair. He really must have been injured, D’Artagnan thought, and his eyes scanned over his body in a quick assessment. He had been slouching on the horse, had he not? A stomach wound? Could it be serious? His pulse was rapid and he felt slightly dizzy, until Rochefort’s demand brought him round to attention.

“Take off your socks, D’Artagnan.”

“My socks?”

“Take them off.”

D’Artagnan looked down at his feet, at his thick woolen socks, and after a moment’s hesitation, he bent over and tugged a sock of each foot. He straightened, socks in hand, and watched Rochefort for his next order. 

“Drop them,” said Rochefort. He leaned back a bit in his chair and D’Artagnan thought he caught a wince cross his face, but if it was ever there, it was quickly gone. He dropped his socks and set his hands on his hips, waiting. 

Rochefort crossed his hands over his lap and said, “And your shirt.”

“What about my shirt?”

“Take. It. Off.”

That eye on him was unnerving, but D’Artagnan hooked his trembling fingers beneath the hem of his shirt, and he pulled it over his head. He did it slowly, guessing that was how Rochefort wished it. Bare to his midriff now, D’Artagnan let the shirt in his hand drop to the floor with the socks. He tried not to shift nervously as Rochefort stared at his body, tried not be self-conscious of the smoothness of his chest and litheness of his muscles. Compared to Rochefort, D’Artagnan felt small. Vulnerable. The hands in Rochefort’s lap flexed slightly and D’Artagnan felt the first stirrings of arousal in his groin. He licked his lips and tried to keep his breath from sounding labored. He waited for the next instruction from the man he should be trying to kill but was, instead, undressing for. 

“Continue, please,” Rochefort demanded after a stretched moment of quiet. 

D’Artagnan swallowed hard, because he knew of what Rochefort spoke. Slowly, his fingers slipped into the waist of his trousers. His gaze drifted to the floor, trying to hide from the intensity of Rochefort’s eye, but it was not a second later that he heard, “Eyes up.” He exhaled sizably, but looked back up at Rochefort. And then, cheeks blazing as sure as the fire behind him, D’Artagnan pushed the remainder of his clothing down his hips, over his knees, and around his ankles. He stepped out of them and toed them aside with the other discards, and then he had nothing to do but stand in front of Rochefort, the villainous swine, naked. 

D’Artagnan braced himself for what would come next, trying to think on the best way of wriggling onto Rochefort’s lap in order to present him with the best access to his ass, while being mindful of his injury. But Rochefort did not order him across his knee. Rochefort did not order anything. All he did was stare, drinking in D’Artagnan’s pale, stripped form with a gleaming, languidly roaming eye. When his eyes settled around D’Artagnan’s crotch, it did not move for a time. D’Artagnan found himself ragged of breath after a solid thirty seconds of Rochefort’s solitary attention, and he began to feel himself…reacting. He twitched and Rochefort pursed his plush mouth. D’Artagnan could feel his length begin to swell, and he tried, he tried so hard to keep it at bay, but the longer Rochefort stared, the thicker his erection became, until D’Artagnan’s cock was pink and fully hard and twitching while Rochefort just stared and stared and stared. 

He stood in such an obscene manner for several minutes, wishing, praying that Rochefort would demand something of him, anything, but the man, the dreadful, horrible monster, only sat, hands crossed in his lap, head tilted to the side, looking at D’Artagnan. 

It was humiliating. It was the absolute worst. D’Artagnan was aching for the next step of his punishment, and when Rochefort opened his mouth at last to speak, D’Artagnan nearly collapsed in relief. 

“Come here.”

D’Artagnan stepped forward, until his naked, knobby knees were nearly touching Rochefort’s, and his cock bobbed in front of him eagerly. Rochefort eyed it, and then he brought his gaze back to D’Artagnan, smiling gently as he said, “Pick up that book.” He gestured to the one he had so recently set to the side. 

Did Rochefort want D’Artagnan to lay himself down on the table, and maybe spank him from there? He picked up the book and looked, confused, at Rochefort. 

“Good, D’Artagnan,” Rochefort whispered, and D’Artagnan felt a surge of…something at the sound of his name once more on Rochefort’s lips. “Find my bookmark.”

D’Artagnan nodded, still befuddled, and found the silk page marker in Rochefort’s book. With his fingers upon the marker, he glanced back up at Rochefort, who nodded his head and said, “That’s right. Open the book.”

He opened it and received another smile. 

“Go on, then,” said Rochefort.

“Pardon?” asked D’Artagnan, looking dumbly back and forth between the pages and Rochefort.

“You can read, can’t you?”

“Of course I can read!”

“Go on, then.” Rochefort’s voice was firmer, then, and his pale eyebrow lifted expectantly on his forehead. 

D’Artagnan made a small sound of confusion and annoyance, and Rochefort reached out and slapped the side of his thigh. Though it wasn’t with much strength, D’Artagnan yelped, surprised. But surprise turned to worry when he saw the shade of Rochefort’s face lighten a bit from the exertion. He did not mention it, but read, in a voice clear and, he hoped, pleasant enough. 

It was a book of philosophy, with such density that, even as he spoke the words, D’Artagnan was unsure of what, exactly, he spoke. He read through the first paragraph, and held his chin higher when he did not stumble. 

Rochefort stood up, then, from his armchair, and D’Artagnan had to squeeze the edges of the book to keep from reaching out to help. When Rochefort was up, his hand ghosted over his side, and D’Artagnan thought that might be where he had been wounded, but before he could think to ask the man again, Rochefort landed a sharp, but not overly hard, slap on D’Artagnan’s hip.

“Keep reading,” Rochefort demanded as he walked past D’Artagnan and sat himself down with a small groan onto his bed. He lay back upon it, his palm resting on his side. D’Artagnan studied him for a moment, not sure to believe what he was seeing. Had his captor, the terrible, brutal Rochefort, lain on his bed, wounded and weak, and asked D’Artagnan to read to him, while standing naked in his bedroom? Was that what was happening? 

“D’Artagnan.” Rochefort’s voice sounded so worn, and it pricked up D’Artagnan’s ears. He moved closer to the bed, walking smoothly to minimize bouncing, and continued his reading. 

He was unsure how long he read. Rochefort stared up at the ceiling, listening, for what felt like hours. D’Artagnan’s voice began to grow weak, and when he shifted uncomfortably on his feet, his legs beginning to ache at holding still for so long, Rochefort, with a grunt, scooted over on the bed and patted it with his hand, without looking at D’Artagnan.

Never stopping his reading, D’Artagnan came to sit on the bed beside Rochefort, crossing his legs up on the covers and holding the book over his erection, which was, finally, beginning to subside. He read and read, and when he glanced over at Rochefort, after what must have been an hour’s solid narration, the man was quite unmoving, eye closed, breathing slow and steady. Asleep. D’Artagnan yawned and closed the book, carefully marking the page, and then he, too, lay down on the bed. He couldn’t leave without Rochefort’s permission, could he? And he didn’t dare wake him up, not when it had taken so long for him to find sleep. 

It did not take D’Artagnan long to find sleep, though; as soon as he stole a quarter of comforter for himself, he was out.

 

\--

 

The next morning, it was the sound of Rochefort sliding out of bed that woke D’Artagnan. He became very still when he realized where he was, where he’d fallen asleep. 

NAKED.

IN ROCHEFORT’S BED.

He opened his eyelids just enough to spy the scene set before him: Rochefort climbing out of bed, his hair mussed from sleep, walking slowly to the washbasin; there, Rochefort removed his shirt and D’Artagnan caught sight of the bandage wrapped around his waist. 

D’Artagnan didn’t watch Rochefort bathe himself. Well, maybe he did a bit, but only for strategic purposes. It was wise, and a rare opportunity to observe one’s enemy in their vulnerable, natural state. Any musketeer would have done the same. That’s what D’Artagnan told himself as he gazed, eyes hidden beneath his curls, as Rochefort took the sponge to his chest. It was a broad, strong chest, with a thick swath of graying hair over hard muscle. But it was the bandage around the man’s waist that most stole D’Artagnan’s attention. Rochefort turned, twisting carefully, as though it hurt him to strain his middle, and D’Artagnan saw the patches of red that had bled through the wrappings. He could not help the tiny gasp that left his mouth, it was entirely out of his power, but he covered it well enough, turning it into a snore-ish grunt, which he accompanied with a sleepy roll to his side, facing away from Rochefort. If the man knew he was awake, he made no mention of it then, and in the seconds that followed, D’Artagnan heard the splashes of water as Rochefort continued to bathe.

D’Artagnan spent the next several minutes pretending to be asleep and waiting for Rochefort to yell at him to wake up or snap his fingers to have the guard take him away, or maybe start beating at him for spending the night in his bed. But the onslaught never came. He tried to relax his body when he heard the footsteps approaching the bed, but he knew his body must have tensed marginally; there was just no helping it. Rochefort hovered over him. D’Artagnan could feel him there, could feel his eye on him, naked and wrapped up in a corner of silk sheets. And suddenly, strangely, an extra weight fell upon D’Artagnan’s shoulders as Rochefort pulled the comforter over him. 

He silently tucked it around D’Artagnan’s shoulders. And then he left the bedroom without a word, shutting the door quietly after his exit.

As for D’Artagnan, he lay awake with eyes wide open, wondering what the hell had just happened. 

 

\--

 

Just as Rochefort had never mentioned D’Artagnan’s awkward physical reactions, D’Artagnan never mentioned how Rochefort had shared his bed, or how he’d tucked him in. Such things didn’t need to be spoken of, especially between enemies, even when D’Artagnan was summoned the next evening to Rochefort’s bedroom, to read to him until Rochefort fell asleep, and then, since he was never told otherwise, to fall asleep in the bed with him. Rochefort let D’Artagnan keep his clothes on and he never touched him, but in the morning, D’Artagnan felt the man looking down at him, felt him pull the covers up around his shoulders before he left.

For the next several weeks, that was the only time D’Artagnan saw Rochefort. Every evening he would come to his room and read, and every morning, he would pretend to be asleep as Rochefort readied himself for the day. Their training together did not resume. Rochefort’s wound must have been worse than D’Artagnan had thought. It was nearly a month before the routine changed. 

One morning, as D’Artagnan was laying in bed, pretending to sleep, Rochefort walked up to him, hovering, as he usually did.

“Come, get up,” Rochefort said, and instead of tucking the covers around D’Artagnan, he pulled them clean off. 

D’Artagnan could no longer feign sleep, and he rubbed his eyes, looking up at Rochefort, startled. “What?”

Rochefort said no more, leaving the room in a sweep of energy that had D’Artagnan staring after him. With no guard sent to lead him anywhere, D’Artagnan began wandering the fortress alone. Completely unattended. He even passed a few guards on his trek, and none attempted to question him. It was in the courtyard where he finally found Rochefort. The man threw D’Artagnan his sword and they resumed their swordplay, as if they’d never stopped. 

D’Artagnan was rusty again, from a month’s lack of practice and exercise, but so was Rochefort. It was an even match, to D’Artagnan’s delight, until the very end, when Rochefort bopped him on the shoulder with the blunt end of his sword and D’Artagnan collapsed to his knees with a painful thud.

D’Artagnan was panting from the vigorous sparring, and when Rochefort angled the tip of his sword at his throat, D’Artagnan let his own sword fall to the ground. He lifted his hands in surrender and Rochefort sheathed his sword with a victorious grin that crinkled the corner of his eye. But then Rochefort froze, looking down at D’Artagnan in something akin to shock. 

At first, D’Artagnan was confused, and then he realized that his hands had fallen to Rochefort’s thighs. How had that happened? There he was, on his knees, with the palms of his hands gently pressing against the front of Rochefort’s thighs, and slowly smoothing upward. Rochefort watched, allowing it for a full ten seconds, and then he slapped D’Artagnan’s face. D’Artagnan snatched his hands back and got to his feet, and Rochefort stepped back. They both looked away from one another, as though nothing had happened. What had happened? 

D’Artagnan’s stomach dropped. He had just run his hands UP ROCHEFORT’S THIGHS. Like a lunatic. What was wrong with him? D’Artagnan was quick finding his way back to his room that day, not to read, but to pace manically, trying to will away the bulge in his trousers and the thoughts in his mind. They were not the thoughts a captive should have for their captor. They were not the thoughts a musketeer should have at all. 

How long had D’Artagnan been in the fortress? And why did he not feel compelled to leave?

He ran to his window to see if Rochefort was still there. No. The villain was gone. But the sting of his slap was still fresh on D’Artagnan’s face. His fingers brushed along his pinkened cheek.

 

\--

 

Training in the morning, reading in the evening, and every night, D’Artagnan shared Rochefort’s bed. Every night, D’Artagnan lay awake, listening to Rochefort breathing, and wondered what his life was. The months had rushed by since that fateful day in the street, when Buttercup’s hoof had splashed Rochefort’s cape with mud. He never thought he would be sleeping in the same bed as that feathery-hatted villain, and he certainly never thought that doing so would bring such a hammering to his chest. 

He found himself, in the dead of the night, turning on to his side, and gazing at Rochefort’s silhouette. D’Artagnan’s fingers would flex, and he’d inch his hand across the mattress, but he would never touch. He didn’t want to touch Rochefort, D’Artagnan told himself over and over. What had happened in the courtyard was an accident and that was all. He would never touch Rochefort on purpose. Why would he want to? The man was a monster. D’Artagnan hated him.

But then the bandits came.

It happened after dinner one evening. Rochefort was sitting in his armchair by the fireplace. D’Artagnan was reading, sprawled out comfortably on his stomach on the furry rug at Rochefort’s feet. They heard the horses before they heard the fighting.

“Shhh,” Rochefort hushed, holding a finger up to his lips to silence D’Artagnan’s reading. He was completely healed by then, and when he leapt from the chair, it was with as much spryness and grace as ever. Before D’Artagnan could ask him what was happening, Rochefort pulled him up by his shirtsleeve and pushed him into his closet. “Stay here,” he demanded, and he slammed the door shut in D’Artagnan’s face. 

He stood in total darkness. The closet smelled like leather, smelled like Rochefort. A feather tickled his nose and he sneezed, pressing his ear against the door to listen. He heard fighting. The front door was busted open and the metallic clashing of swords echoed up the spiral staircase into D’Artagnan’s curious ear. 

Usually, he was so good at following Rochefort’s commands, and he meant to follow the one just given him: stay here. But when D’Artagnan heard the sound of Rochefort’s voice yelling, he slammed through the closet door and burst from the bedroom with an andiron in his hand in lieu of a sword. 

The hallway was filled with the sounds of battle, and D’Artagnan raced down the stairs, following the source until he entered the foyer. It was full of men dressed all in black, with masks tied around their faces. Bandits!? D’Artagnan wasted no time, throwing himself into the center of the fight and weaving his way through to Rochefort, who was trading blows with an especially formidable bandit. 

Rochefort didn’t see him, but D’Artagnan maintained the vulnerable spaces at Rochefort’s back, beating off the bandits that tried to flank him. He beat them away with the andiron. His heart was racing wonderfully; it had been so long since he’d been in a proper fight. Of course, he would have preferred his sword to the andiron, but it would have to-

A bandit struck D’Artagnan in the face with his elbow, and D’Artagnan stumbled backward, feeling the blood rush from his nose. From his back, he waved the andiron, but the bandit that had felled D’Artagnan kicked it out of his hand and dropped to his knees to straddle his waist. The bandit throttled him, his hands wrapping mercilessly around D’Artagnan’s throat. 

D’Artagnan kneed the assailant, and the bandit released his throat, only to punch him in the face in retribution. 

“Argh!” D’Artagnan cried, trying to shove the bandit off, but the man was too large and D’Artagnan’s head was spinning from being choked. Blood from his nose was streaming down his face.

“D’Artagnan!” yelled Rochefort, and suddenly, there he was, standing behind the bandit straddling D’Artagnan and running him through with his sword. More blood splattered down on D’Artagnan, and Rochefort removed sword from stomach, grabbing the bandit by his neck and tossing him to the side. Next, he pulled D’Artagnan up by his collar and shoved him against the wall, out of the way. Then he turned and helped his guards defeat the last of the masked intruders. 

With a pile of bodies in the foyer, Rochefort finally turned back to D’Artagnan, eye blazing with ire. He turned to the giant guard and hissed, “Get this cleaned up,” and then he stalked over to D’Artagnan and grabbed his arm. It was reminiscent of their first day together, the harshness of the fingertips digging into D’Artagnan’s flesh as he was dragged through the fortress. D’Artagnan kept one hand cupped over his bleeding nose as he was angrily stormed up the staircase, until finally Rochefort shoved him through the cedar door and slammed it shut. 

There was no respite for D’Artagnan. Rochefort was instantly upon him, grabbing hold of his arm again and shoving him at the washbasin. He dipped a rag with one hand and took D’Artagnan’s chin in his other, holding him still while he pressed the damp cloth over the streaks of blood. 

“Insufferable boy, I told you to stay put!” 

D’Artagnan tried to pull away from him, because the man was actually yelling, and his hands were like a vice on his jaw as he gripped. His cleaning wasn’t gentle either. Rochefort dabbed angrily at the blood. 

“I heard fighting. What was I supposed to do?” countered D’Artagnan. “Hide like a coward?”

“No, much better to throw yourself into a fight you can’t win!” Rochefort poked at the tender skin beneath D’Artagnan’s eye where he’d been punched. 

D’Artagnan winced with pain and Rochefort eased up, re-dipping the cloth and pressing it, more gently now, against the swelling skin. “I thought I could help,” muttered D’Artagnan, trying to look anywhere but at the man tending to his face.

“You’re hurt,” Rochefort growled. “I told you to stay put so you wouldn’t be hurt. Now look at you. You’re a mess.” His thumb rubbed over the stinging flesh beneath D’Artagnan’s eye. “You’ll have a black eye.” He sighed. 

D’Artagnan knew what was coming, so he decided to say it before Rochefort could, trying to keep the thrilled edge from his voice. “Where would you like to do it?”

Rochefort’s head tilted to the side and his eye narrowed. He stared at D’Artagnan and did not speak.

Though he was nearly sweating from embarrassment, D’Artagnan continued, deciding that the explanation, and humiliation that accompanied it, was merely a part of his punishment. “Where would you like to…spank me? Should I remove my trousers?”

Rochefort’s inhale was sharp, and his grip on D’Artagnan’s chin increased. He studied D’Artagnan’s face for a long time, and looked, to D’Artagnan, as though he were scenting the air between them. With a jolt of worry, D’Artagnan wondered if he could detect the excitement building in him. He had been stiffening since Rochefort had grabbed him in the foyer. But by now, surely Rochefort was familiar with D’Artagnan’s strange bodily responses and knew them to be random inconveniences and have no special meaning whatsoever. Surely. 

“Spankings are a punishment, D’Artagnan,” Rochefort rumbled. “Punishments become useless when they become pleasurable.”

“Pleasurable?” D’Artagnan asked, mystified. 

“I will not spank you, because,” his eye roamed up and down D’Artagnan’s body, “you clearly wish to be spanked.”

“That’s preposterous,” D’Artagnan answered in outrage. 

“Your punishment must be something you would hate.” Rochefort pulled him closer and removed the damp cloth from D’Artagnan’s eye. He dropped it in the washbasin and held D’Artagnan’s face in both hands. “How would you like for me to kiss you?”

A shiver ran all the way down D’Artagnan’s body and he twitched visibly in Rochefort’s hands. He licked his lips, tasting blood. “I – would hate that,” he whispered. 

Rochefort crushed their lips together and D’Artagnan went limp in his arms at once, but Rochefort was unhindered. He led D’Artagnan backwards until his legs hit the bed, and then he lowered them down, climbing on top of him. And all the while, he was kissing him. Rough, hot kisses that pulled the most embarrassing whimpers from D’Artagnan. But he couldn’t help it! How could he possibly help it? He had never been kissed in such a manner. It was shocking and he was powerless. Rochefort bit at his lower lip and when D’Artagnan gasped, Rochefort’s tongue slipped between his lips and touched his own. 

“Mmmgh!” D’Artagnan moaned, and his arms, held frozen and awkward at his side until that moment, flew up to grasp at Rochefort’s back. The man’s body was strong and warm as it mashed down against him, and their tongues slid together, and D’Artagnan had to keep reminding himself that he was being punished and that the kissing was terrible. He hated it. D’Artagnan’s fingers raked through Rochefort’s hair and it was so silky and soft and D’Artagnan hated it. And when Rochefort broke from their kiss to press his lips lightly over his bruising eye, D’Artagnan really hated that. He hated it so much, he pulled his hair and directed Rochefort immediately back to his lips, and he kissed him so hard it must have hurt, but that was only because D’Artagnan hated Rochefort and hated kissing him.

It was the worst punishment ever.

And it ended too soon. 

After a timeless session of heated, punishing kisses on Rochefort’s bed, the villain pulled away and tugged at D’Artagnan’s hair. “No book tonight,” he said, and his voice sounded rougher than usual, and even deeper.

D’Artagnan rolled to his side of the bed – it was his side now – and tried to catch his breath. He watched Rochefort walk back to the basin and re-dunk a fresh rag. He watched his large hands, the hands that had just been holding D’Artagnan, wring out the excess water. And he watched him walk back and crawl onto the bed. 

D’Artagnan’s eyes were wide as Rochefort pressed the fresh, damp cloth to his eye. It felt tender. His whole face ached. His lips were tingling. 

“Go to sleep, Little Thief,” Rochefort demanded, and he waited, hovering over D’Artagnan until he shut his eyes. Only then did he roll onto his back. 

D’Artagnan tried to follow Rochefort’s order, but it was extremely difficult to catch his breath. He lay awake for a long time, his mind on fire, and his body. But it seemed Rochefort had a hard time falling asleep, as well. Indeed, even an hour later, he was just as wide awake as D’Artagnan.


	3. Chapter 3

Even though the new punishment was very bad and very unpleasant, D’Artagnan couldn’t seem to help but make the most horrible mistakes. When he read in the evenings, after Rochefort had fallen asleep, he kept forgetting not to dog-ear the pages, and when Rochefort saw the unseemly disrespect to his books, he would grab D’Artagnan from behind, turn him around in his arms and kiss him. D’Artagnan would struggle a bit, but then, oddly enough, his hands would end up gliding up the horrible man’s arms and grasping at the back of his neck. When the punishment was over, D’Artagnan would make a face and go back to his business, which usually involved making more mistakes.

Once, he was cleaning Rochefort’s boots, the purplish-brownish ones, and he spilled polish all over one of them. And then, after a quick glance over his shoulder, D’Artagnan accidentally spilled polish all over the other one, too. Oops. He was sure to place them where they wouldn’t be seen, right beside Rochefort’s armchair, but unfortunately, Rochefort discovered the punishable offense immediately and pulled D’Artagnan down into his lap to pay for his crime.

And so the routine between them changed once more: sword practice in the morning, chores in the afternoon, some done correctly, many done wrong and with dire consequences, and then reading by the fire in the evenings. D’Artagnan would mispronounce a few words, and once, his hand slipped and he ripped an edge of the book. He’d looked up from his spot on the furry rug at Rochefort’s feet, and Rochefort had sighed, shaking his head in disapproval. D’Artagnan braced himself, thinking he would be hauled by his hair into Rochefort’s lap for his punishment, but instead, Rochefort slinked from the armchair onto the rug, and he stretched his long body out on top of D’Artagnan’s, pinning him with hands on his wrists and hips on his hips. D’Artagnan had blinked up at him for a moment, watching him, the way the firelight made his whole face glow, and then Rochefort was kissing him softly, slowly. That punishment, out of dozens and dozens, had been, for D’Artagnan…the worst one yet.

D’Artagnan’s bedroom was a thing of the past. After the new, terrible change in the grueling punishment regimen, Rochefort collected the high stack of books from the old room and returned them to his own bookshelf. D’Artagnan never went back to that room. He spent most of his day with Rochefort. It just made the most sense. It made it easier for both of them, since D’Artagnan was constantly irritating Rochefort throughout the day, for him to be within reach to receive his punishments.

But one day, D’Artagnan went a bit too far.

He had been cleaning out Rochefort’s closet, while the man himself was out in the hall. D’Artagnan could hear him calling to the maid, requesting she send up a bottle of wine. That brought a smile to D’Artagnan’s face as he plotted ways to get bits of cork in the wine, and so he was grinning when he saw it. The hat. The hat with the ridiculous feather. It was as if the mischievous plan burnt itself magically into D’Artagnan’s brain, because as soon as he saw it, he picked up the silly hat, strode to the fireplace, which was already burning, and tossed it in with a chuckle. He was certain it was something one of the musketeers would have done, and the best part would be Rochefort’s face when he went to wear his hat and found it was gone. And then he would probably grab D’Artagnan, knowing it had been him, and deliver unto him a horrendous punishment. The only immediate issue, D’Artagnan found, was that the hat seemed to be having difficulty burning. It was smoldering, really. The feather had burnt up, but the actual hat was taking its time, and worse, thick smoke was beginning to fill the room. D’Artagnan, panicking slightly, coughed and waved his hand in front of his face, but in the next moment, large hands grasped him round his middle and dragged him backwards.

“Has my eye failed me or did I just witness you throwing my property into the fire?” Rochefort rumbled in D’Artagnan’s ear. Before D’Artagnan could answer, he was thrown up against the wall. He shut his eyes, waiting for the violent kissing that was awaiting him and that would be completely uninvited and not enjoyed at all. But Rochefort didn’t kiss him. 

D’Artagnan stared at him breathlessly. There was just enough smoke in the room to give Rochefort’s face a surreal haze, and D’Artagnan couldn’t tear his eyes away from his mouth, lips he knew from experience were soft, and his nose, with its little scar at the bridge, and the light lines around his eye, and the eye patch, the way it fit his face so perfectly and led attention to those sharp, elegant cheekbones, and…and… 

“Get on your knees,” Rochefort whispered, but D’Artagnan was already dropping, his eyes still glued to Rochefort’s face. And like the time in the courtyard, D’Artagnan’s hands lifted and stroked up Rochefort’s thighs. Except, unlike in the courtyard, Rochefort’s hand did not slap him away. Instead, his hands softly glided across D’Artagnan’s cheeks until his fingers sank into thick curls. “Good, D’Artagnan.”

And then D’Artagnan found he needed no further instructions from his villain. He seemed to know, as if by instinct, exactly what Rochefort wanted, because he wanted it too. His hands slid up until they were clutching at Rochefort’s hips, and D’Artagnan lifted on his knees, nuzzling his nose into the warmth before him. He inhaled, pressing his mouth over the growing bulge in Rochefort’s trousers. The fingers in his hair tightened, willing him further, and D’Artagnan kissed Rochefort’s clothed erection, letting his mouth open to breathe damp over the swell. Rochefort groaned above him, giving D’Artagnan the confidence he’d been seeking, and his fingers, slowly, slowly like Rochefort liked, pulled down the trousers. Rochefort’s cock was released from its trappings, and it hardened, growing thick and long before D’Artagnan’s eyes. He slowly moved forward, Rochefort’s hands softly guiding him, and pressed a light kiss at the tip of the bulbous head. D’Artagnan licked his lips, and then licked Rochefort’s slit delicately, tasting a peculiar saltiness. Rochefort shivered, his knees trembling, and D’Artagnan smiled up at him with big eyes before returning to his cock with a long lick up his shaft. Tongue flattened, eyes fluttering, D’Artagnan tasted him, licking languidly around the base and back to the head, before he pressed his lips upon the velvety, hot skin for more kisses, wet and soft. 

It was strange. D’Artagnan’s whole life was strange. But being on his knees, paying service to Rochefort…he didn’t hate it. The man moaned as his fingers carded over D’Artagnan’s scalp, and D’Artagnan didn’t hate any of it. He’d never hated any of it. He let one of his hands smooth from Rochefort’s hip to the base of his length, wrapping his fingers experimentally and giving it an easy tug as he applied more sloppy kisses to the head. That seemed to have favorable results, and so he did it again, squeezing Rochefort’s shaft as he licked and kissed, but it quickly appeared to D’Artagnan as if he were missing some key component. His eyes fluttered up to Rochefort, and he gazed at the villain’s face through his thick lashes, happy to see him staring down with a glazed expression. Keeping his eyes on the man’s face, D’Artagnan parted his lips and wrapped them around the tip of Rochefort’s cock. 

He paused, thinking Rochefort might reproach him by the way his mouth dropped open, but when his fingers dug into his hair and the groan slipped from his lips, D’Artagnan made a happy little sigh around the thick head, followed by a gentle, teasing suck. By the knocking of Rochefort’s knees, D’Artagnan surmised he enjoyed the sucking, and D’Artagnan liked it, as well, liked the full feeling of Rochefort stretching his lips wide, so he pushed in for more, moaning as the length slid further into his eager mouth. It was harder to suck with Rochefort filling him, but D’Artagnan tried his best, pressing his tongue against the underside while a small trickle of spit escaped from the edge of his lips. When he felt the head bump against the back of his throat unexpectedly, D’Artagnan gagged and had to pull off. Tears filled his eyes as he looked apologetically up at Rochefort, but Rochefort didn’t look unhappy, and his hands left their fists of curls to trace over D’Artagnan’s cheeks. 

D’Artagnan kissed Rochefort’s hips, one after the other, his hands sliding around to grip his ass, and then, with a lungful of air, he returned to his efforts of sucking Rochefort’s cock. Rochefort kept his fingers at D’Artagnan’s jaw, almost as if he were helping him keep his mouth widened enough to let his girth slip all the way back between his lips. It was easier, that time, to suck at the substantial cock in his mouth, and D’Artagnan let his eyes fall shut, enjoying the heavy, hot feeling of being filled by Rochefort in such an intimate way. He hummed with pleasure, and the vibration made Rochefort’s knees knock again, to his delight. His hands squeezed into Rochefort’s ass cheeks, massaging them slowly as he began to bob his head, keeping his lips a tight suction over the swollen length. The movement allowed D’Artagnan more use of his tongue, he noticed, and he quickly found a pleasant rhythm of suckling the tip, bobbing down, and trailing back up with a lapping tongue. He swirled around the fat head, and felt a small surge of salty liquid on his tongue, leaking from Rochefort’s tip. D’Artagnan took a moment to lick his lips, deciding he definitely liked the flavor, and then he returned for more, sucking and lapping at the head, and then sliding his lips as far down as he could. When he felt the nudge at the back of his throat again, he didn’t gag, but he didn’t push any further, and Rochefort didn’t try to make him. Rochefort seemed perfectly content to let D’Artagnan do whatever D’Artagnan wanted to do. And he found he really, really liked doing all of it. Rochefort’s cock belonged in his mouth, lying rigid and thick on his tongue, filling him up. 

D’Artagnan increased the rapidity of his movements, grasping roughly at Rochefort, silently urging him, and Rochefort’s fingers finally returned to wind in D’Artagnan’s curls, and he gently began rocking his hips forward, fucking into D’Artagnan’s mouth. That was even better, because he could concentrate solely on keeping a tight suction around Rochefort, and the feeling of being controlled, vulnerable to Rochefort’s desires, had his own cock throbbing between his legs. He scratched at Rochefort’s ass cheeks, groaning, letting him know it was okay to be rough with him, and Rochefort’s hips began pistoning faster, but never deeper than a gentle nudge at the back of D’Artagnan’s throat, and the fingers in his curls never pulled hard enough to genuinely hurt, just enough to make D’Artagnan’s eyes roll with pleasure. He took his punishment, his delicious, god-sent punishment, as well as his minimal skill would allow, and then Rochefort’s grunts turned perfectly ragged, and he delved between D’Artagnan’s swollen lips again and again, his hips stuttering before he froze, grasping at the back of D’Artagnan’s head and curling over him. A desperate cry left Rochefort’s mouth and a gush of hot, pulsing fluid seeped into D’Artagnan’s mouth. 

He swallowed it all down in several clumsy gulps, and when the pulsing of Rochefort’s release was finished, D’Artagnan eased the cock from his lips, pressing a final kiss to the head before he pulled Rochefort’s trousers back up and tucked him in. Rochefort stared down at him, caressing his thumb across D’Artagnan’s used lips, and then, suddenly, he leaned down, pushing D’Artagnan onto his back and straddling his hips.

“Mmph,” D’Artagnan gasped as Rochefort slipped his hand down his trousers and grabbed his cock. His hand was impossibly hot and his grip was gloriously tight. D’Artagnan wrapped his hands around Rochefort’s waist and arched his back as Rochefort jerked him, quick and rough.

“Good, D’Artagnan,” Rochefort gasped, working his fist ruthlessly. “Come for me.”

Those words from Rochefort’s mouth had D’Artagnan writhing, clutching desperately at the man working him and it wasn’t long before he stiffened, eyes spasming shut and lips parting in a plea, as his own release shot free, splashing his shirt and making Rochefort’s large hands sticky with semen. Rochefort milked him a moment longer, letting D’Artagnan ride out the aftershocks of his orgasm within the tight tunnel of his fist. 

They stayed like that for a few minutes after, Rochefort leaning down on his forearms, keeping a firm straddle over D’Artagnan’s hips. He kissed him softly on the mouth, both of them a bit breathless. D’Artagnan glanced at the bottle of wine with a sly grin, wondering how he’d be able to get the cork stuck inside. He pulled Rochefort closer, returning the kiss with a clever slide of his tongue. 

He would be wanting more of that punishment as soon as possible.

 

\--

 

No longer did they keep away from one another at bedtime. D’Artagnan still read, but it was with Rochefort’s arms curled around him, his lips kissing up his neck. One night, he pulled D’Artagnan’s naked body into his lap and snaked his hand around his waist, squeezing and tugging at D’Artagnan’s cock while he read, making him falter a pronunciation just so he could administer further punishment, which mainly involved pinning D’Artagnan beneath him and rutting until they both made messes of each other. 

D’Artagnan no longer woke alone on his side of the bed to sneak looks at Rochefort bathing. Wakefulness would dawn upon him slowly, and he’d nestle into Rochefort’s chest until the man bid them both get up, dragging D’Artagnan’s loose-limbed, sleepy body to the washbasin. They wiped one another clean, D’Artagnan never failing to accidentally splash Rochefort with water, earning him a swift, harsh spanking that kept him pink and happy all day.

They continued to train, but there were more interruptions than ever before. Rochefort found an increased need to correct D’Artagnan’s stances, and the best method of teaching seemed to be standing directly behind him, pressing his groin against D’Artagnan’s backside and squeezing his hips. And when the villain sensed D’Artagnan was feigning ignorance, he would lightly slap his face, chasing his slap with a kiss. D’Artagnan couldn’t tell which touch he enjoyed more. Both made him tingle all over. 

It was not how D’Artagnan had imagined his captivity to evolve, and before he knew it, he woke up to the year’s first snow. He eased himself from Rochefort’s arms and trudged, rubbing his eyes, to the bedroom window. The ground was covered in a sparkling blanket of snow. D’Artagnan had been at the fortress for nearly six months. He glanced back at the sleeping Rochefort and hurried back into bed, burrowing against his warm body. Even in his sleep, Rochefort opened his arms to him, settling his chin on top of D’Artagnan’s head. 

It was not how D’Artagnan had imagined it at all.

But, like the seasons, nothing could stay the same for long, and that very day, Rochefort rode into town with a few of his men. He’d kissed D’Artagnan first, pulling his hair playfully as he whispered in his ear how he needed a new hat, since his favorite one had met a horrendous end. D’Artagnan had watched him ride off, the hooves of his roan horse kicking up snow.

When the man returned after nightfall, he brought with him no new hat, but news to change D’Artagnan’s life forever.

D’Artagnan knew at once that something was wrong. It was evident in the way Rochefort entered the bedroom; his shoulders were too tense, the line of his mouth was too straight, his hair was a mess, as though nervous fingers had restlessly pulled at his ponytail. He walked right past the clothes D’Artagnan had purposefully left strewn about the room, and came to sit beside him on the furry rug. Not in the armchair, but on the rug, reaching out and taking his hand. His expression was disturbingly serious to D’Artagnan, after months of seeing him laughing and gasping with pleasure.

Horribly anxious, D’Artagnan squeezed the hand holding his, and he waited patiently for Rochefort to tell him what had happened. 

The information came about a minute later, after a long stretch of Rochefort staring past D’Artagnan into the fire. “I went into town today,” he said. D’Artagnan nodded, because, of course, he’d known that. Rochefort directed his gaze to him, and before he said anything more, D’Artagnan felt his heart aching in his chest. And then, those words came: “Your father is dead. I’m sorry, D’Artagnan.”

“Did you kill him?” D’Artagnan asked, wondering if he should be snatching his hand back, wondering if he should be grabbing the andiron and stabbing Rochefort in his one good eye. But he only sat, stone-faced and broken, waiting for Rochefort’s answer.

“No,” Rochefort replied, and D’Artagnan saw a flash of hurt in his eye. “I heard the news from the bartender.”

D’Artagnan nodded and swallowed down the lump in his throat. “How did it happen?”

“He was slain in a duel, but I know not by whom. I’m sorry, D’Artagnan.”

“You said that,” D’Artagnan spat, but he still did not pull his hand away. He squeezed it tighter as he tried to will away the tears streaming from his eyes. 

“D’Artagnan…” Rochefort pulled at his hand, trying to bring D’Artagnan closer, but D’Artagnan felt like a dark, blank space. When Rochefort pulled at him gently, D’Artagnan shoved at him violently, sending him back into the side table. A stack of books toppled down.

“Please,” D’Artagnan whispered. He stood up from the rug and turned away from Rochefort, taking a few steps towards the fireplace. The words echoed in his mind, over and over, and he held his hands up to his ears as if to block the sound, to block the memory, to block the news that…

“D’Artagnan.” The hand returned to his shoulder as Rochefort’s voice whispered against the back of his neck, and a rage swelled, crested, and broke. D’Artagnan reached down, his hand grabbing at one of the andirons, and he turned around with a swing. Rochefort ducked, and D’Artagnan tried again, but Rochefort caught hold of his wrist. “D’Artagnan!” he yelled. 

D’Artagnan tried to swing again with his free fist, but Rochefort caught that, too. The best swordsman in Europe wasn’t bad with an andiron either, and he knocked the makeshift weapon from D’Artagnan’s hand. The thud it made as it fell to the floor pushed a sob up from D’Artagnan’s lungs and he threw himself at Rochefort, the man still holding his wrists tight. They struggled, but D’Artagnan had never been a match for Rochefort, and the man conquered him easily, sweeping him up off of his feet and cradling him in his arms. D’Artagnan’s eyes were blurred with tears, and he was vaguely aware of his breath coming too rapidly, so he tucked his head against Rochefort’s chest. The sobs kept coming as Rochefort carried him to their bed. 

Was it shock he was feeling? D’Artagnan felt himself being settled gently across the soft comforter, and he gazed up at the man above him with tearful eyes. He was crying, but he felt…he felt…

“He’s dead?” D’Artagnan asked, and his voice was so soft, so sad, that it made him grimace to hear himself.

Rochefort pressed his palm against D’Artagnan’s cheek, his lips curved into a worried frown. “Yes,” he said. His voice was solid, and D’Artagnan tried to anchor himself to it. His fingers twisted into Rochefort’s hair, and the man followed where he was led, down to D’Artagnan, down to press their lips together, because it was all D’Artagnan could think of to want. God! Was that all he wanted? His father was dead, slain, and all he could think of to want was that villain’s mouth on his? 

His father was dead?

A cry broke their kiss, but D’Artagnan kept him close, his hands trying to be everywhere at once. When he spoke, it was against the skin of Rochefort’s throat. “Rochefort, Rochefort, Rochefort,” he whimpered, and Rochefort was right there with him, his broad, warm hands caressing up and down D’Artagnan’s trembling sides, his lips kissing over his jaw, over his shoulder, his fingers, his ears, his belly button. And all D’Artagnan could do was keep touching him, and all he could say was, “Rochefort, Rochefort,” and all he could stand, the only way he could keep from completely falling apart, was to press their bodies together and roll on top.

Rochefort, now on his back, looked up at D’Artagnan, and his eye was dark and his lips were parted on a silent sigh, and when D’Artagnan wiped the tears from his face with the back of his hand, Rochefort grabbed his waist and dug in his fingernails, the way he knew D’Artagnan liked. D’Artagnan threw back his head with a muffled cry. How was it Rochefort knew exactly what he liked, exactly what he needed?

“Rochefort,” he whispered, his eyes cast up to the ceiling as he grabbed tight to his waist and heat filled his heart. “Fuck me.”

If the villain was surprised, if he was hesitant, if he was wary, he didn’t show it, not then, not when D’Artagnan needed him so desperately. D’Artagnan needed his cruel hands and his punishing mouth and his hot breath against his skin, and somehow Rochefort knew it. A deep growl rumbled from his chest and he flipped D’Artagnan back against the bed, moving on top of him. 

Rochefort stripped off his own clothes first, and then saw to shedding every layer from D’Artagnan’s tortured skin. When he’d ripped off the trousers, he kissed and bit his way back up D’Artagnan’s body, sucking at his lower lip until D’Artagnan moaned and then he kissed him. It was a rough kiss, with dominating teeth and tongue, and D’Artagnan surrendered to it, to Rochefort, completely. Their bodies were bared and when Rochefort rubbed against him, pressing him into the mattress, D’Artagnan gasped. His father was dead. His father was dead. But Rochefort was kissing him and that was what mattered. D’Artagnan arched his back, rolling his hips, spreading his legs and wrapping them around Rochefort’s waist. “Fuck me. Fuck me,” he whispered in the villain’s ear and Rochefort growled, grabbing a fist full of D’Artagnan’s hair and slamming his head against the pillows, bending his neck so he could suck claiming bruises all along the pale column. 

His father…his father…Rochefort’s hands left his hair to wrap around D’Artagnan’s waist, and D’Artagnan’s mind went blissfully blank, empty but for the pounding of his heart as Rochefort flipped him onto his stomach, held him down, and landed a sharp slap across his ass. 

D’Artagnan hissed from the shock and pain, but his hips grinded against the mattress. “Do it again, do it again,” he begged, pushing back his hips so his backside was presented utterly. He felt Rochefort’s hands lightly touching over the soft skin and then CRACK. The force of the next slap pushed D’Artagnan down, and Rochefort grabbed his hips and yanked him onto his hands and knees, kneeling behind him, and he hit him again. “Do it,” D’Artagnan groaned, and Rochefort spanked him hard and fast, slap after slap, clapping stings, one ass cheek and then the next until D’Artagnan was humping the air in his desperation. His hand reached back, and Rochefort took it, leaning down to kiss his palm, and then he was stretching his body over D’Artagnan, chest against back, and D’Artagnan angled his knees apart and pushed. He could feel Rochefort’s hardness pressing against him, rubbing against his thigh. 

“Rochefort,” D’Artagnan whimpered. 

The man kissed the back of his neck as his hands ran over D’Artagnan’s tender backside, until his finger traced down the cleft of his ass. D’Artagnan shook, and he knew Rochefort could feel it, but he didn’t hesitate; Rochefort didn’t let that dangerous space free up in D’Artagnan’s mind. He reached across him, his hand finding their special ointment at the bedside, and when his finger returned, it was slick. D’Artagnan breathed slowly, in and out. They had done that much before, but it was always a strain at first. It always took a moment to get used to. Rochefort’s finger slipped in, and D’Artagnan moaned, rocking back against the digit. Rochefort worked his finger slowly, carefully, but his mouth was eager against D’Artagnan’s neck, and he kept whispering D’Artagnan’s name into his shoulder blades. His lips were hot, perfect against his skin, and D’Artagnan turned his head to capture his mouth with his own as Rochefort added a second finger, working him open. 

And then the fingers left him, and Rochefort was breathing hard against D’Artagnan’s neck. His hand smoothed down D’Artagnan’s back, squeezing when he got to his ass. The burn from the spanking was perfect. Rochefort was perfect. “God, you’re perfect,” D’Artagnan said aloud, and Rochefort groaned, lining the large head of his cock against D’Artagnan’s hole, his rim twitching, needing to be filled. Again, maybe to distract him, maybe because he wanted to, Rochefort landed a slap against D’Artagnan’s ass as he pressed in. 

D’Artagnan gasped, hardly feeling the strange pressure of the cockhead pushing at his rim until it popped inside. Rochefort was thick, the head the thickest part of him, and it stretched D’Artagnan wide. He cried out, his hands twisting into the sheets beneath him, but Rochefort just kept pushing, slowly, so slowly, his lips kissing everywhere he could reach as he did. There was a point, when D’Artagnan had taken an inch or two of him and thought he could take no more, and Rochefort had stilled patiently inside of him, his hands running comfortingly up and down D’Artagnan’s sides. They had breathed through that moment together, calm, and then Rochefort had kept pushing, and he eased inside, inch after inch. 

D’Artagnan felt impossibly full, impossibly stretched, and it burned, but it was what he wanted, what he needed, and once Rochefort finally stopped, once he’d bottomed out and D’Artagnan could feel his thighs touching the backs of his legs, he sighed, hanging his head. He could feel Rochefort deep inside and it felt good. Every throb, every twitch, every pull, everything. Rochefort was everything to D’Artagnan.

When had that happened? 

He couldn’t think about it. D’Artagnan couldn’t think of anything past the throbbing inside as Rochefort began to slowly ease out. His cock tugged at his walls, and D’Artagnan felt himself clamping tight around him, trying to keep him in, and the resulting friction made him breathless. He rocked his hips with an encouraging moan and Rochefort’s hands clutched at his hips and he pulled all the way out, kissing the small of D’Artagnan’s back. D’Artagnan’s eyes were shut and he bit his lip when he felt Rochefort rubbing his cockhead teasingly over his hole before thrusting back inside. That time, Rochefort hit up against his prostate and little bursts, like tiny stars, soared behind D’Artagnan’s eyelids. Warmth pooled low in his belly, and he brought a hand back to squeeze at Rochefort’s forearm. 

Rochefort rammed into him, making D’Artagnan’s eyes sting and his own cock, heavy and untouched between his legs, twitch and harden even more. The man behind him, pressed against his back, was grunting with every thrust, and already their skin was slick with sweat. D’Artagnan whimpered and Rochefort leaned back, holding on tighter to D’Artagnan’s hips to keep his cock buried deep, and he spanked him hard, again and again, timing each spank with a thrust of his hips. He hit that blinding spot inside D’Artagnan over and over. Skin slapped together, echoing wet and dirty. D’Artagnan curved his spine, stretching up like a cat, lowering his shoulders and pushing up his ass, and Rochefort growled, slamming into him even harder. Spanking him even harder. Pressing into D’Artagnan’s prostate harder and harder and harder. When Rochefort’s hand wrapped around his cock, he only had to apply to barest of tugs before D’Artagnan found his release. He sobbed as he came, burying his face into the pillows while Rochefort kept fucking him through it. But he didn’t last much longer, pounding into D’Artagnan a few more times and then bucking out of control and falling across his back with a heaved sigh. D’Artagnan could feel his cock pulsing inside of him. 

They collapsed, Rochefort rolling off of D’Artagnan, but keeping him wrapped up in his arms. D’Artagnan kept his eyes closed, knew tears were still streaming down his face, but he was facing away from Rochefort, his back tucked against his chest, his lips kissing the back of D’Artagnan’s ear. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable; it never had been. D’Artagnan could feel Rochefort’s heart pounding, and he tried to match his breath to his. He could sense the words building on Rochefort’s tongue, so when he finally whispered it softly at his ear, D’Artagnan was ready for it. 

“I’m releasing you from our deal, Little Thief,” he said.

D’Artagnan opened his eyes, staring out into fire-lit space. Rochefort’s hands were rubbing circles into his smooth chest. He was still inside him; softening, but still inside.

“Go home. Take care of your mother.”

If D’Artagnan listened closely, past the sound of Rochefort’s heart, past the sound of the ever-crackling fireplace, he could hear fresh snow falling. “It’s only been six months,” whispered D’Artagnan. 

“It’s been long enough.” Rochefort’s arms squeezed D’Artagnan tighter for an instant, and then he pulled away completely and rolled from the bed. “I’ll have a horse readied for you.”

D’Artagnan sat up, not bothering to pull the comforter up around his shoulders. What bother was the cold, really, when his chest felt like it was ripping in half? “I don’t know the way home.”

Rochefort turned at the coldness of D’Artagnan’s tone, looking slightly confused. His eye patch was a little crooked, something D’Artagnan would have sidled up to fix, kissing over it playfully. But he just looked away from it now. It wasn’t his eye patch to straighten. 

“You blindfolded me when you brought me here,” he continued. “I don’t know the way home.”

“I’ll have a guard lead you,” answered Rochefort. “You can keep the horse.”

D’Artagnan climbed out of the bed, naked, and walked past Rochefort to his pile of clothes on the floor. He wanted to say, ‘I don’t want your horse, Rochefort. That’s not what I want,’ but he said nothing. He said nothing more to the villain for as long as he remained in the fortress. 

Had the morning been so warm and sweet, with Rochefort dipping D’Artagnan into a kiss? The night was its polar opposite. D’Artagnan refused to wait until morning. If he was being thrown out, sent away, he didn’t need a pity invitation to stay one last night. He would rather die. The snow fell harder as he waited for the horse to be readied in the stable. Rochefort had given him his cape to wear and D’Artagnan held it tightly around his shoulders. It was the giant guard that would lead him home through the snow, and when the man brought the roan around, handing the reins to D’Artagnan, he took them readily. He knew Rochefort was watching him, could feel his eye on his back. But D’Artagnan didn’t look at him until he was up in the saddle, and only then did he pay his captor a fleeting glance. 

Rochefort’s hair was down, long pulled from his tieback by D’Artagnan’s desperate fingers. The night breeze blew the silky strands over his eye, and for a moment, D’Artagnan thought he saw a peculiar glistening there, but it was only the reflection of the snow, shining bright in that cruel eye. Nothing more. Rochefort’s lips were twisted into an almost smile. He lifted his hand, and then took a step back. D’Artagnan held up his chin. He did not smile and staved off the tears that threatened to roll down his cheeks. He lifted his hand in turn, and then he turned the horse away, and followed the guard into the snowy night, away from the fortress and away from Rochefort.

 

\--

 

The ride home wasn’t as long as D’Artagnan expected. Of course it had felt longer gagged and blindfolded and scared for his life, but in reality, the journey from the fortress to his village was only an hour’s ride, maybe a few minutes longer, even with the snow, which was coming down harder than ever. As soon as they breached the village’s border, D’Artagnan slowed the horse and hopped from its saddle, thrusting the reins back into the guard’s hands. 

The giant guard looked confused as he stared down at D’Artagnan. “Master Rochefort said you were to keep the horse.”

“I don’t want it,” answered D’Artagnan. Without another word, he turned and began walking away, walking through the village square, heading home.

The hour was late and the road was dark, but D’Artagnan made good time. As he walked up his mother’s garden, his foot slightly slippery on a stepping stone, his heart felt heavy and his clothes were damp with cold. The snow was falling persistently, and his curls were plastered to the sides of his face. He knocked on the front door, wondering what awful state his poor mother would be in when she answered. 

But it wasn’t D’Artagnan’s mother that answered.

“Aramis?” D’Artagnan stared at the musketeer standing in his doorway, his hair mussed and his shirt open. “Why are you here?”

His friend stared back, almost looking as if he didn’t recognize D’Artagnan, but then, after a moment, his eyes softened and he smiled bright and broad, clapping a hand on D’Artagnan’s back.

“D’Artagnan,” he laughed. “It’s so good to see you.”

“And you, my friend,” answered D’Artagnan. “But tell me, why are you here? Where’s my mother? Is she alright?”

“D’Art?” came a woman’s voice from the shadows, and then D’Artagnan’s mother appeared, her sleeping gown hanging off her shoulder, her cheeks glowing red. She set a hand on Aramis’ shoulder as she came to join him in the doorway. When her eyes settled on D’Artagnan, they widened. She didn’t even try to hug him.

“Mother?” D’Artagnan asked, horribly confused. He looked at his mother’s hand, how it squeezed Aramis’ shoulder. He looked at their mutual state of undress, the untidiness of their hair, the redness of their cheeks. “What is this?”

“I thought you had another six months left with Rochefort?” his mother asked, still not moving toward him. 

“He let me go,” answered D’Artagnan, shock making his words feel sticky in his mouth. “So I could take care of you. Because father is dead. Mother, how did it happen?” Aramis shifted. Still, they did not move to let D’Artagnan through the door. He remained out in the cold, the snow swirling all around him. “I heard he was killed in a duel. Who killed him. Mother?” Again, Aramis shifted with discomfort, and D’Artagnan caught his eyes. As quickly as that, he knew. “Aramis?”

His friend smiled sheepishly at him and wrapped an arm around his mother’s waist. “I came to find you a while back, lad,” he said. “You weren’t here, but your mother and I…well, what can I say?” In response to the sheer horror on D’Artagnan’s face, he removed his hands from his mother and held them up non-threateningly before him. “It was your father that challenged me, D’Artagnan. And what can I say? I had to accept, didn’t I? The Three Musketeers never back down from a duel.”

D’Artagnan wanted to scream that it was supposed to have been The Four Musketeers, that he was supposed to be a part of the group, that he’d thought…he’d thought he belonged. But Aramis was just standing there, a stupid look on his face, telling D’Artagnan that it wasn’t his fault he had killed his father, because his father had been the challenger. 

When he backed away, he tripped over a skeleton vine of the rose bush. Neither Aramis nor his mother tried to help him up. They stared at him from the doorway, watching. D’Artagnan, sitting in a high drift of snow, turned his head helplessly to the right and caught the shadow of a tombstone. The tears welled up in his eyes, and he had no choice but to stand, stumbling away down the stone path before they could see him cry. No one tried to stop him. No one even spoke his name. His walk turned into a run. He fled from his house, past the place where his father had been buried. He ran and ran, until he couldn’t breathe, and when he stopped, bending over, hands on his knees, he vomited on the side of the road.

His mother didn’t want him. She had Aramis. Aramis?! Aramis, a true villain. A man who was meant to be his friend, guilty of an ultimate betrayal. How could it be true? D’Artagnan could never go home, could never look at either of them again, and so he kept running, running, his clothes soaked through from the snow. He couldn’t see, his world was nothing but drifts of white. 

His heart called out to go to Rochefort, but Rochefort didn’t want him either. Rochefort couldn’t wait to get rid of him. D’Artagnan couldn’t return to the fortress. So he kept running blindly through the snow, off the main road. He ran until he fell, and when he fell, he didn’t get up. No one cared if he got up. D’Artagnan had no one but himself, and oh how he hated himself. Better to let the snow take him. He shut his eyes and wrapped the cape around his shoulders. 

He was tired.

 

\--

 

He stood beneath his training tree, high on the hill, flowing through his formations while Buttercup watched, occasionally dipping her head to munch on some grass. It was a hot day, and D’Artagnan had already sweated through his shirt. He would have to let mother wash it again when he returned home. Father would berate him over his carelessness. He was so unfair. Didn’t he know D’Artagnan was a man now, and had license to sweat through his shirts whenever he pleased?

His sword zipped through the air, his footwork more precise than ever, and D’Artagnan grinned into the bright sunshine. When had his skill improved so vastly? He was always talented by way of the sword, of course, but the way he moved was preternatural: swift as the wind, hips at the perfect angle, toes broken of their habitual pidgeoning. He paused to wipe the sweat from his palms, brow pinching when he felt the too-soft fabric beneath his hands. Looking down, he didn’t recognize the clothes he wore. Black trousers, black shirt. No shoes? Woolly socks instead. That was strange. 

Buttercup’s whinny carried on the wind, but when D’Artagnan glanced over his shoulder to smile at her, she wasn’t there. 

“D’Artagnan?” said a voice from behind him: deep, graveled, sad. He whipped around but saw no one. 

Suddenly, a shiver took hold of him and D’Artagnan wrapped the cape closer. Wait, why was he wearing a cape? Again, D’Artagnan looked himself over. He did wear a cape around his neck, long and fine-clothed, with a splatter of old mud along the trim and a dusting of snow on the shoulders. The shivers grew more violent, and D’Artagnan dropped to his knees. His hands lifted to press against strong thighs, but he felt nothing but empty, freezing air. 

“Little Thief,” whispered the voice, and D’Artagnan swatted at the vague tickle of air against his cheek. 

“I’m no thief,” he announced to the empty expanse of sky. “I’m a musketeer!”

But that didn’t sound right either. The word ‘musketeer’ didn’t quite settle in D’Artagnan’s stomach, and he toppled over, onto his side, rolling in a blanket of snow. Not a musketeer, not a musketeer. The shivers were stealing his breath away, but the cape was wrapped more firmly around him, and he felt his skin warming. The tickle at his cheek spread to his forehead, to the tip of his nose, to his lips, ever so softly, and then D’Artagnan heard the voice again. Louder. Commanding. 

“Wake up!” it yelled, and D’Artagnan felt a sharp pang across his face. “Damn it! Open your eyes, D’Artagnan!” 

His other cheek was stinging, and D’Artagnan gasped, writhing in the snow. He heard a crackling sound, like a distant fire. Felt the cape grabbing at his shoulders like hands, large and hot. 

“Rochefort,” D’Artagnan said, and the hands squeezed him tighter and a breeze combed the damp curls from his forehead. 

“D’Artagnan, look at me,” said the voice. 

It was a demand, directions, an order. 

D’Artagnan opened his eyes. 

 

\--

 

D’Artagnan was shaking, wrapped up in a thick comforter, on a furry rug, beside a roaring fireplace, Rochefort leaning over him, rubbing heat into his frozen limbs. When D’Artagnan’s blurry eyes blinked up at Rochefort, the man surged forward, nuzzling into his neck and breathing hard. When Rochefort spoke, it was with an edge of hysterics D’Artagnan had never heard. 

“Stupid boy, you could have died,” he said, kissing D’Artagnan in-between admonishments. “What were you doing out in the storm?”

Rochefort cupped D’Artagnan’s face with his hands, and they felt so warm and wonderful, D’Artagnan leaned into the touch and moaned happily. The fire blazed hot, and so did Rochefort, shakes still wracking his body. Slowly, as Rochefort continued his trail of soft kiss along his jaw, D’Artagnan began to remember. He had run into the snow, off the main road. He’d fallen into the drifts. Because his mother hadn’t wanted him to stay. Because she was with Aramis. Because his father was dead. 

D’Artagnan gasped, sitting up and grasping at Rochefort’s shoulders. “Aramis killed my father,” he said.

Rochefort tried to keep him calm, rubbing his arms, pulling him into his lap, wrapping them both up in the comforter. “Tell me what happened.”

D’Artagnan turned his head, pressing against the warm chest offered him. He tried to choke out the words again, but they stuck in his throat. How could he tell Rochefort he’d gone home and his mother had not only been shacked up with someone he’d thought was a good friend, but said friend had killed his father? And neither of them had seemed to care that D’Artagnan was even alive, let alone standing, shocked, in the freezing snow. How could he tell Rochefort he’d gone home and home hadn’t wanted him?

He shook again, but not from the cold, and Rochefort hushed him, his hands roaming over his body, giving him his heat. “Shhh,” he whispered, his lips pressed into the crown of D’Artagnan’s head. 

When D’Artagnan found his voice again, he tried to pull away, a new upset rising up swiftly in his throat. “I’ll leave. As soon as I’m warmed up. I’ll leave.”

Rochefort turned D’Artagnan’s head, forcing his eyes. Again, his eye patch was slightly askew on his face, like he’d been wiping at his eyes and jostled its placement, and D’Artagnan’s fingers itched to fix it, but it wasn’t his job. It wasn’t for him to fix. He tried to turn his head away to hide the tears quickly forming, but Rochefort held him firm, making him meet his eye. 

“I’m afraid I can’t allow for that to happen,” he said, very seriously. D’Artagnan’s eyes widened as Rochefort’s hands became bruisingly forceful. “I showed leniency in the wake of your family’s tragedy, but as you seem to have scoffed at my kindness, my leniency has been revoked. The only thing you will be doing once you’re warmed up is paying penance for your idiocy.” D’Artagnan stared at him and Rochefort’s hand, delicately, hardly at all, slapped his cheek. “If I hadn’t had my man track you to make sure you made your way home safely and you had died in the snow, I would have been left alone with no one to clean my shoes or groom my horses. Your lack of consideration is worrying, D’Artagnan. The punishment will need to be severe.”

The villain pulled him in and kissed him fiercely on the mouth, biting D’Artagnan’s lip when, finally, after several shared breaths, he pulled away. D’Artagnan smiled through a shiver, lifted his hand, and straightened the eye patch.

 

\--

 

D’Artagnan and Rochefort slept in front of the fireplace that night, and when the morning came, the night felt like a distant dream of someone else’s life. Hearing him stir, Rochefort pushed up on his elbow and loomed over D’Artagnan, gauging him for fever with a palm against his forehead. When D’Artagnan asked him whether he would live, Rochefort smirked down at him and said, “I don’t know, D’Artagnan. You have been very bad.” The words served as a wake up for D’Artagnan, and he flashed his eyes downward with playful subservience. 

An hour later, they had moved to the bed, or rather, Rochefort had dragged D’Artagnan there by the back of the neck. He was sprawled on his back, naked, his legs held high and wide in the air, his hands wrapped around each thigh to keep them open, as ordered. Rochefort was between those thighs, his own hands occupied with the kneading of D’Artagnan’s ass cheeks, his fingers digging and rubbing, plying the fleshy globes apart while he traced tortuous kisses along the seam of his buttocks. Rochefort’s mouth was so teasing, his touches so feather-light, that D’Artagnan entertained a genuine wonder that maybe he would die, with his legs spread and Rochefort pressing a lazy kiss to his asshole. It wouldn’t be…the worst way to go.

Rochefort rumbled when D’Artagnan’s legs tried to squeeze closed of their own volition, and he slapped each inner thigh, glancing up at him with glistening lips. “I told you to stay still,” he scolded, snarling before diving back down and trailing a hot lick across D’Artagnan’s quivering rim. When D’Artagnan groaned, Rochefort hummed in approval, sending a heady vibration up his spine. When he arched his back and pushed further into the tongue, he was rewarded with another slap against his thigh, hard and sharp and perfect. Then Rochefort’s hands took a hold of D’Artagnan’s legs, and he pressed them further apart, kissing each knee before returning to kiss the tight ring of muscle. D’Artagnan felt him chuckle against his sensitive skin before probing at him with his tongue. 

The punishment went on and on, Rochefort slowly opening him up with his tongue, not letting D’Artagnan move, so when he finally slotted himself between his legs and shoved in unapologetically with his length, D’Artagnan came immediately, with a yell to wake the entire fortress. Rochefort laughed, leaned down to kiss he corner of his mouth, and then proceeded to pound into him mercilessly. 

Afterward, they lay twisted together in the sheets, fingers intertwined. The horror in D’Artagnan’s heart had molded to a new form in the night, wrapped up in Rochefort’s arms. He stared up at the ceiling, smiling at the lips kissing at his neck. “Rochefort?”

“Hmm.”

“Who hurt you, all those months ago? When you were bandaged up?”

Rochefort stopped kissing him, turning onto his side to face him. He looked like he was trying to make a decision, his eye squinting slightly and his lips thinned. D’Artagnan poked him in his ribs impatiently, and Rochefort grabbed his wrist tight, then brought D’Artagnan’s hand up to his lips, kissing each knuckle. “It was a musketeer,” he said solemnly.

D’Artagnan stole his hand back from Rochefort, only to brush the side of his villain’s face with his kissed knuckles. “Aramis?” he asked. When Rochefort did not answer right away, it was answer enough. D’Artagnan plied himself from the sex-dampened sheets and straddled Rochefort’s waist, hands on his hips. He blew a curl out of his eyes. “How did you come to tangle with Aramis?”

Though Rochefort could easily displace D’Artagnan’s position of domination, he allowed it, sighing deeply and roaming his hands along the smooth skin of D’Artagnan’s thighs. “I saw him in the square with your mother,” he said. 

D’Artagnan’s eyebrows lifted. “And then what?”

Shrugging, as if it were no big deal, Rochefort replied, “I followed him into the tavern and…perhaps I initiated a bit of a brawl. He cheated, of course, the filthy musketeer, and stabbed me with a broken bottle.”

Rochefort had started a bar fight when he’d caught someone with D’Artagnan’s mother? All those months ago? He scowled at the man trapped beneath him and tugged at his chest hair. “And the masked men I thought were bandits?”

“I believe you know them as the Three Musketeers,” Rochefort said after a thoughtful pause, “along with a handful of their dastardly friends.”

That was why they had been wearing masks to hide their faces! D’Artagnan could have screamed in frustration for not having realized sooner. The ‘bandits’ had fought formidably, too formidably for simple bandits. But he’d thought they had all been killed by Rochefort’s men. Then again, he’d spent a quarter of that fight on his back, bleeding copiously. “Rochefort,” D’Artagnan asked, bristling with curiosity, “why have the Three Musketeers been after you?” In his head, he asked himself, ‘why did they not save me when they saw me made prisoner?’ Maybe they had planned to, but changed their plan when they saw D’Artagnan leaping in to help Rochefort. Maybe…maybe they hadn’t been there for D’Artagnan at all, judging by Aramis’ reaction to him the previous night. 

“You are aware I am an ex-musketeer, I believe,” said Rochefort. D’Artagnan nodded. “Those righteous bastards have been after me ever since I left the guard. It wasn’t enough to take this when I left,” he hissed, fingers ghosting over his eye patch, “they won’t be satisfied until I’m dead. Idiots.”

D’Artagnan remembered the way he thought, the way he used to think, that when one was a musketeer, one was a musketeer for life. But he’d never thought that, were one unhappy in the guard, they wouldn’t be allowed to leave. And now that D’Artagnan had seen Aramis’ true face, he could easily see why one would no longer wish to be associated with the musketeers. They were, he realized with new clarity, villains. 

“Rochefort,” he said, grabbing the man’s face in his hands and leaning in close. “They must be punished.”

 

\--

 

D’Artagnan knocked on the door. 

When it opened, he smiled kindly and held out his hand. “Aramis,” he greeted. 

The musketeer grinned at him crookedly and accepted his handshake. At D’Artagnan’s suggestion they head into town and have a drink, Aramis, a lover of all things alcoholic, thought the idea amiable. He patted D’Artagnan on the back as they made their way down the road, boots crunching through the thick snow. After a few shared laughs, D’Artagnan mentioned Porthos and Athos, how he’d not seen them in ages, and he was delighted to hear that they were staying in town, actually, and would love to see D’Artagnan. How wonderful! D’Artagnan had smiled brightly and clapped his hands together. Wouldn’t it be nice to have the Four Musketeers back together again? 

Aramis briefly left D’Artagnan alone once they’d reached the tavern, but by the time he’d ordered a round of drinks, Aramis had returned, with Athos and Porthos at his heels. D’Artagnan greeted them all with enthusiasm. Didn’t they all look well and fine? What had they been up to these past months? He showed them to the table he’d procured, and pushed at them the drinks he’d ordered on their behalf. 

The drinking commenced. Laughter ensued. It felt so familiar to D’Artagnan, even though everything was quite, quite changed. The musketeers were loud and restless, as usual, but unusual was the silence that swiftly followed their boisterousness, when, one by one, each man began to tire unexpectedly, nodding off until their heads banged against the table. 

D’Artagnan smiled, finishing off his drink, the only one that had not been tampered with, and then he snapped his fingers. The giant guard appeared from around the bar, and so did Rochefort, and together they collected the unconscious men and dragged them into the neighboring stable. There, the stable hand was waiting. D’Artagnan paid him a handsome chunk of coin when he brought them the horses, and was pleasantly surprised when the young lad helped heave Aramis’ limp body across Buttercup’s back. Before D’Artagnan could mount behind his captive, Rochefort grabbed his waist and spun him around in his arms. He kissed him hard and then slapped his ass. D’Artagnan batted his lashes, smiling slyly, and then climbed up on Buttercup. 

Their journey home was swift.

 

\--

 

D’Artagnan was happy to learn from Rochefort that the fortress had a dungeon, and he smiled the entire time they were rigging the Three Musketeers up in chains. They were still unconscious, but that was only temporary. Rochefort tugged at his hand, insisting they return later, when the villains were awake, and then they could have their revenge. Nice and slow, the way they liked.

But until then, Rochefort wanted D’Artagnan’s full attention, for he’d purchased him a gift during their time in town. He steered his Little Thief to their bedroom and made him close his eyes. 

D’Artagnan fidgeted anxiously, wondering what Rochefort could possibly have in mind. Something horrible, no doubt. When he felt a weight plop down on his head, he scowled. 

“Open your eyes,” demanded Rochefort. 

D’Artagnan opened his eyes. And laughed. Rochefort stood before him, a new hat on his head, folded up a bit too much on one side, feather a bit too large and much too silly sticking out from the brim. But the look on Rochefort’s face made D’Artagnan bring his hand up to his own head, feeling the object placed upon it. A feather tickled his skin. 

“I had it made for you in town,” Rochefort said smugly. Before D’Artagnan could spit out a nasty remark – and he had several in mind! – Rochefort pulled at him, bringing them both down to the furry rug, hoisting D’Artagnan into his lap. His hands tugged at the rim of the hat, tightening its position on D’Artagnan’s head. 

Rochefort’s stupid feather was tickling D’Artagnan’s face. “Is this a punishment?” he asked. 

His villain slapped him lightly and D’Artagnan couldn’t control his smile. Rochefort’s fingers closed cruelly around D’Artagnan’s chin, turning his head so he could whisper in his ear. “I’m going to fuck you in your silly hat.” 

D’Artagnan nuzzled into the hand holding him and whispered back, “I hate you.”

Rochefort kissed his lips, rough and sweet. “I hate you, too.”

 

THE END!


End file.
